


So Much More Than Something

by luckie_dee



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-05-25 20:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14984810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckie_dee/pseuds/luckie_dee
Summary: Prompt fill for Fandom  Trumps Hate: “The team needs to raise money, so they decide to do the most stereotypical things (e.g. a bake sale/car wash) but they all go horribly wrong.” OR: Five times SMH tried to raise money to replace the Haus roof and how it got Jack and Bitty together. An alternate end to Year Two.





	1. Introduction: The Roof

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo this is my first Fandom Trumps Hate fic... from 2017. Which means it's only (*checks watch*) eighteen months late. Better late than never? My sincerest apologies to the winner of this fic, who opted to remain anonymous, and my sincerest thanks for your generous donation to Planned Parenthood. Many thanks also to my lovely beta, [foryouandbits](http://foryouandbits.tumblr.com/). This fic is completely written and betaed and will update weekly on Wednesdays.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, canon-typical drug and alcohol use, mentions of mental health issues, mentions of Jack's overdose, handjobs, blowjobs, hints at masturbation.

Jack is annoyed but not surprised when two of his textbooks go missing. The closer Ransom gets to any test, the more he sucks things like books and binders into his vortex, whether they have anything to do with what he’s studying or not. Ransom doesn’t _mean_ to steal them — Jack knows this — but he isn’t the only one who has homework, so Jack heaves a sigh and heads for the attic.

He finds Ransom hunched in front of his desk, muttering, with his hands fisted at his temples, propping his head up over his notes. He doesn’t react to Jack’s arrival, but when Jack asks, “Hey, Rans, do you have any of my books?” he grunts and motions to the pile next to his chair.

Jack is rifling through it when another set of footsteps clatters up the stairs. Bittle’s voice rings out, calling ahead of himself, “Rans, have you seen my — oh! Jack, I didn’t know you were up here.”

Bittle appears on the other side of Ransom’s desk, and seeing him there _is_ a surprise. Bittle doesn’t come up to the attic very often, as he’s explained to Jack on multiple occasions. There’s not much to recommend it, he says, not when the only things to sit on are unmade beds and decrepit desk chairs, and when the space is largely decorated with piles of laundry and open containers of half-eaten food. Also, according to Bittle, there’s always a certain _aroma_.

“Just looking for some books,” Jack explains, holding them up. He stands and steps aside so that Bittle can get at the pile.

Bittle nods, but he seems distracted — Jack’s trying to shoot him a look over Ransom’s head, and Bittle’s squinting suspiciously around the room instead of returning it. “Weren’t the bunk beds on that wall?” he asks, pointing.

Ransom finally drags himself away from his notes with what appears to be great difficulty. “Uh… yeah, bro. We moved them, like, two weeks ago.”

It makes sense that Bittle doesn’t know. Jack’s pretty sure that Bittle was at class when it happened — it’s the only way he could have missed it; the scraping and swearing had carried all the way out to the yard. And of course, with his aversion to the attic, Bittle wouldn’t have seen the change since. He’s certainly taking it in now, critically examining the place where the beds used to sit, his hands on his hips. “Is _that_ where my stock pot’s been?”

“Yeah,” Ransom says absently, already lost to his studies again. “We needed it for the leak.”

“The leak?” Bittle frowns and crosses the room. He crouches to look at the pot, which is nestled in between piles of gear and clothes. Jack can see now that there are a few inches of water gathered in the bottom. Bittle tilts it critically, and when he cranes his neck up, Jack follows his gaze to a dark stain in the rafters, right where Ransom’s Canadian flag used to hang.

“Shit,” Jack mutters.

Bittle echoes the sentiment and adds, “Rans, this does not look good.”

“That’s just ’cause it’s the biggest one,” he mumbles.

“The _biggest_ one?” Bittle exclaims, standing and spinning towards him. “So you mean…”

Ransom waves a hand, gesturing vaguely at the room in general. “Yeah man, the other ones are just drips.”

With an expression of growing alarm, Bittle starts poking around. Jack tracks his progress, and that’s when he sees them — some of the coffee cups and cereal bowls that he’d assumed were just part of the general detritus are actually clean and collecting water. Maybe some of the dirty ones are strategically placed too. “Lord almighty,” Bittle says, sounding panicked. “How long has it been like this?”

“A while now.”

“ _Justin Oluransi_ ,” Bittle snaps, “how long?”

Ransom slowly lifts his head, tearing his eyes away from his notes like it’s painful. “Uh, it’s kind of always leaked? But it got a lot worse when the snow melted. And there was that killer rainstorm, remember? I woke up in this puddle of freezing water, and I thought it was just some fucked up prank or something, but nah. It was that big leak, and we had to move the bed.” He pauses. “You can take your pot back if you need it. We can just use a trash can or something.”

“Couldn’t have done that in the first place,” Bittle grumbles.

“Ours was full,” Ransom protests. “It would have just turned into garbage juice.”

Bittle rolls his eyes. “You’ve emptied it since then, right?”

They all turn to look at the trash can on the floor next to Holster’s desk. It’s overflowing.

“Right,” Bittle says. He heaves a long suffering sigh and looks back up at the rafters. “I think we’re gonna have to do something about this.”

*****

Their first course of action is to have a meeting about the leaky roof. It isn’t organized — the whole thing starts when Bittle makes a batch of chili for the Haus in his newly-reclaimed stock pot, and then the frogs turn up, claiming that they heard about a free meal through the grapevine. Jack suspects “the grapevine” consists of Bittle tipping off Chowder. In any case, while they wait out the last few minutes that the cornbread is in the oven (at Bittle’s insistence, and he stands near the stove guarding the chili with a ladle), Holster and Ransom send Dex to shimmy up onto the roof.

He’s gone for long enough that by the time he reappears, the residents of the Haus are crowded around the table, shoveling in chili. The notable exception is Bittle himself, who’s only managed a few spoonfuls, despite Jack’s repeated insistence that he sit and eat. Currently, he’s on his feet and wiping crumbs off the countertop near where Lardo is perched, picking cornbread out of the pan. Chowder and Nursey have retreated to the living room, and Jack wouldn’t be surprised if they were scared away by the tension that’s been rolling off Bittle in waves since the roof inspection started, despite his forced cheer.

Bittle stops cleaning suddenly when Lardo nudges him, and his anxious glance at the door has Jack looking over his shoulder. The sound of Dex’s footsteps had been masked by the general cacophony of the room, so it's a surprise to see him standing just inside the kitchen. Jack waits to hear what he'd discovered, but Dex just asks, “Can I look at the attic too?”

“Have at it, bro,” Ransom says, barely pausing between bites.

As Dex leaves again, Jack sees Bittle deflate against the counter, biting his lip. Lardo gently punches his shoulder. “Deep breaths, Bits. It’ll work out.”

Jack manages to catch Bittle’s eye, and he nods at the empty chair next to his own seat, where there’s a nearly-full bowl of chili and a piece of cornbread with one bite missing. “Bittle, come on. Sit, eat. Your food’s getting cold.”

“Okay, okay,” Bittle mutters, crossing the room to plop discontentedly back down at the table. He picks up his spoon and stirs his chili, but he doesn’t eat any of it.

Jack watches him out of the corner of his eye, then nudges Bittle’s arm. “It’s going to be okay,” he says. He’s not actually sure why Bittle is so stressed out. Obviously, whatever the problem is, Jack will cover it. He could cover it now if he wanted, and he’s going to have an NHL contract in a couple of months besides.

Bittle flashes him a too-bright smile. “Of course it will be. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

That isn’t what Jack had meant, and in fact, he’s pretty sure it’s _not_ nothing, but before he can say anything else, Shitty pipes up from the other side of the table: “Hey Bits, is this a family recipe?”

“Of course it is,” Bittle replies proudly, sounding a bit more like himself. “Phelps family tradition.”

“’Swawesome,” Shitty says. “It’s tasty as fuck. I always think of Southern chili as being really spicy, though.”

The room drops suddenly into stunned, eerie silence, and Jack glances across the table with wide eyes. The chili _is_ good, and it’s plenty spicy, with more bite than Jack generally prefers in his food.

Clearly, Bittle agrees, and he makes an affronted noise. “Shitty _Knight_ , I swear all that sriracha has killed your taste buds. I’ll have you know that I use jalapeno, chipotle, _and_ ancho. I just know how to balance heat _and_ flavor. And if you want something that’ll burn your mouth right out, there are at least four bottles of hot sauce in the cabinet.”

Bittle punctuates the rant with a big bite of chili, and Shitty winks across the table at Jack. “Whatever you say, Bits. This shit is _good_ either way.”

Jack can’t help but be impressed at how well it works. Bittle’s distracted enough to keep eating — at least until Dex comes back down from the attic a few minutes later. He delivers the verdict dispassionately: “Yeah, you need a new roof.”

“Can’t you just patch it?” Holster asks around a mouthful of cornbread.

“It’s _been_ patched,” Dex replies. “I kind of can’t believe it lasted all winter without caving in somewhere.”

Bittle drops his spoon back into his bowl, his face pale. “Can you do it?” he asks. “Replace it, I mean? Do you know how to do that?”

“Well,” Dex says slowly. “I’ve helped with some roofs before, but I’ve never done a whole one by myself. I don’t have all the tools and equipment I’d need, so I’d have to buy that stuff. Or rent it. And the supplies alone would cost you a grand on top of that, if not more.”

Shitty gives a low whistle. “Fuck, brah.”

“Plus it would take a while. A few days at least,” Dex continues. He shifts in his seat, dropping his eyes to his hands, which are twisting a little on the tabletop. “Playoffs just started, I need to get started on my final projects, and I have class…”

Ransom points his spoon at Dex, spattering chili across the table. “Do you want dibs next year or not?”

“Hey, now,” Bittle interjects, “that’s not fair, Rans. You can’t make him feel guilty for not being able to replace the whole roof by himself in an afternoon. And besides, maybe if y’all would’ve said something about your swiss cheese ceiling, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” He shifts to include Holster in his glare.

Dex looks mildly relieved, but Ransom shoots Bittle a disapproving look while Holster chimes in, “Just because Johnson didn’t make you work for dibs doesn’t mean everyone’s getting off that easy.”

Jack decides it’s time to step in. He’s still not clear on why everyone is so upset when the solution is obvious. “Bittle’s right, guys,” he says, cutting across the bickering. “It would have been good to know about this last fall. Or last year. But what’s done is done, so I’ll just schedule someone to fix it —”

The room erupts into a chorus of objection before he can even finish speaking. Holster’s _no way, man_ is the loudest, but they’re all protesting, and from the chair beside him, Jack hears Bittle’s quiet, almost desperate, “Jack, you _can’t_.”

Jack lifts a hand in surrender. “Okay, okay, but why not? I haven’t signed anywhere yet, but when I do —”

Shitty cuts him off firmly. “Jack, no. We want to be your friends, not your charity case.”

The silence is immediate and weighty. Even the living room has gone quiet, only the thin sound of ESPN carrying in. No one around the table is eating anymore, and Jack can feel how tense Bittle has gone, like it’s extending beyond the edges of his body into the few inches of space between them.

There’s a part of Jack that wants to argue. Making sure that his teammates, his closest friends, have a roof over their heads isn’t something he’d only do out of charity. At the same time, he doesn’t want them to _feel_ like that’s what it is, and he’s heard that tone in Shitty’s voice before. Finally, he nods and picks up his spoon again. “Okay. So what are we going to do?”

“Maybe we could all chip in?” Ransom suggests haltingly. “I have a couple hundred bucks. I could probably ask for a few more.”

“You know how Coach feels about me learning the value of money,” Bittle grumbles. “I already don’t have enough left for the rest of the semester. My mom’ll slip me a little extra, but I can’t ask for anything else.”

“I don’t have enough either,” Shitty adds, “and fuck if I’m asking my folks for shit. Nah, we’ll have some fundraisers. Obviously.”

Ransom drops his spoon with a clatter and starts dragging a piece of cornbread around the bottom of his bowl to sop up the dregs. “Okay, right. But like… how?”

Shitty shrugs. “Same kinda shit kids do in high school. Sell candy bars, wash cars, whatever.”

“Bake sale!” Holster exclaims, pointing at Bittle.

Bittle scoffs. “Do you even know how much we would have to spend on ingredients for me to sell two thousand dollars worth of pie?” he points out.

Holster waves it off. “So we’ll do a couple different things. Sell a few pies, wash a few cars; it’ll all add up fast.”

“I’ll make a spreadsheet!” Ransom exclaims. Holster fistbumps him.

Dex, who had fallen quiet since the discussion about dibs, pipes up. “We made a lot of money for my high school team with a service auction.”

Ransom looks at him approvingly. “Now that's what I like to hear, Poindexter. Solutions.”

“We should be writing these down,” Shitty suggests. “Someone start a list? Bits?”

Bittle’s already tapping on his phone. “Okay, what have we got so far? Service auction, car wash, what else?”

“Bake sale,” Holster reminds him.

“We can make sexy men of SMH calendars!” Ransom exclaims.

“Oh lord,” Bittle mutters. “What are we getting ourselves into?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Samwell probably owns the Haus, but I consulted with someone who explained to me how SMH could actually be responsible for the cost of repairs. I'll spare you the details, because it's not terribly exciting.
> 
> Link to the tumblr post for the introduction [here](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/post/175089797842/so-much-more-than-something-17-zimbits-fic) :)
> 
> PS - subsequent chapters will be (much) longer.


	2. Chapter 1: The Calendar

They decide to start with the calendar, because it’ll take the longest to pull together. Even knowing that, they’re too busy to do anything about it until the ECAC championship is behind them. Shortly after they’ve won it, Shitty calls a strategy session at the Haus one afternoon when everyone’s done with class. The Haus residents are there, along with the frogs and a couple of the other guys who have agreed to participate, taking up every available piece of furniture in the living room and a good portion of floor space.

“This team is comprised of a bunch of beautiful fuckers,” Shitty announces, “and we have a budding photographer in our midst. So all we need to do is snap a few pinup shots and print calendars at, I don’t know, Office Depot or some shit. All proceeds going to the Haus roof.”

Jack, sitting on one end of the green couch, half-raises a hand and then drops it. “Did we make sure that this is… legal? With the NCAA?”

Shitty looks unconcerned. “No worries, brah. We won’t use the Samwell logo or take any pics at the rink or anything. Should be.”

With that glossed over, the meeting continues, and it isn’t — as Jack had expected — about how much they’re going to charge, or which printer has the best prices, or how they’re going to sell or distribute the finished product. As it turns out, Ransom and Holster already have spreadsheets for all that. No, this meeting is about themes. And props.

“Okay,” Shitty is saying as he paces the living room, referring to a scribbled-over notebook page, “Chowder, m’dude, you’ve gotta be a summer month. Shark theme, obviously. We’ll get you a fucking floatie, drop you in a pool. Sound good?”

Chowder, predictably, is beaming. “Yeah, ‘swawesome!”

“Sweet. Dex. Hot mechanic. Hot repairman. Hot guy carrying tools.”

“Predictable,” Dex mutters from the other end of the couch.

Nursey, slouched against a nearby armchair, pipes up to ask, “You got a better idea?”

Dex scowls at him. “Nope.”

“Well if you think of something, let me know,” Shitty says loudly, talking over both of them. “And if you don’t, bring some tools, all right? Wear overalls, if you’ve got ‘em. Okay, who’s next… oh! Okay, Bits.”

Bittle had been leaning against the door frame between the living room and the kitchen, taking in the conversation with amusement, but he visibly startles when he hears his own name. “What?” he squeaks.

“I’m thinking November for you, so your picture can be about cooking or baking. You know, Thanksgiving,” Shitty continues, squinting down at the crumpled piece of paper in his hands. “Brandishing a pie, whatever.”

“Brandishing… a pie,” Bittle echoes faintly.

“Or a spatula,” Shitty adds.

Bittle hasn’t actually moved, but there’s nothing casual about his stance anymore. “Why would I be holding a spatula?”

Holster snorts. “Use your imagination, Bitty.”

“It doesn’t have to be a spatula,” Ransom interjects. “Maybe it’s a whisk. Or, I don’t know, a can of whipped cream or something.”

Bittle’s face has gone so blotchy that Jack’s a little worried about him. “Okay, no. I draw the line right there. I didn’t think y’all would want me in this thing.”

His reluctance brings Shitty up short, and he stops wandering the room and frowns. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Holster adds. “You’re on the team, aren’t you?”

“So are about ten other guys who _aren’t_ going to be in the calendar,” Bittle points out. His arms are crossed over his chest now, and his shoulders are hunched. “Get one of them to do it. Or why don’t one of you two —” he motions to Ransom and Holster “— take separate pages instead of being on the same one? Problem solved.”

“Bro,” Ransom says reproachfully.

Shitty waves off the suggestion. “Bits, we figured you’d want to. You do live here, ya know? You’re gonna live here longer than any of us. You don’t want the roof to fucking cave in on you, right? Besides, it’s team bonding and shit.”

“Well... those are good reasons. Okay then.”

Jack’s still looking at Bittle. It’s obvious to him that Bittle isn’t happy, and that his cheerful expression is forced and tight. “Are you sure?” Jack asks, watching carefully for his reaction.

Bittle swings his gaze over to Jack and turns his smile up a notch. It’s as phony as Jack’s ever seen it, almost painful to look at. “Of course. It’ll be fun.”

Jack narrows his eyes, but he nods as Bittle retreats to the kitchen. He makes a mental note to check in with Bittle later, tuning back into the conversation to find Shitty nd Nursey trying to figure out the best way to find a pile of autumn leaves in the middle of March.

*

By the time later rolls around, Jack finds himself hovering outside Bittle’s door, debating whether he should talk to Bittle about it at all. Whatever the issue is, it’s not an on-ice problem. It is, however, a team issue, so as team captain, he feels like he should try to address it. He thinks about the way Bittle had been absent from the rest of the strategy session, opting instead to make two batches of cookies and a pan of rocky road brownies, and about the way Bittle’s face had looked, and he knocks briskly on the closed door. At Bittle’s answering, “yeah?” he pushes it open.

“Everything okay?” Jack asks, stepping into the room. He nudges the door shut again.

“Jack! Yeah, everything’s fine,” Bittle replies, flipping the lid of his laptop down and pushing it back across his desk. “Just studying.”

Jack’s pretty sure he saw a recipe on the screen, but he doesn’t call Bittle out on it. Reflexively, he moves to jam his hands in his pockets, but he’s wearing athletic shorts and it just ends up being a weird, aborted motion. He smooths the hem of his sweatshirt instead. “Listen, Bittle, if you’re upset about the whole calendar thing —”

“Oh, lord, no!” Bittle interrupts. “It’s _fine_ , Jack, honestly.”

He still doesn’t look fine, and Jack crosses the room to perch on the edge of the bed. “If you really don’t want to do it, you don’t have to, you know. I can talk to them.”

Bittle swivels his chair and props his feet up next to Jack’s hip. “I can talk to them myself,” he huffs.

“Are you going to?”

“No,” Bittle says. He pauses and averts his gaze. “I don’t know.”

Jack ducks his head, purposefully catching Bittle’s eye. “Bittle. You really don’t have to do this.”

Bittle looks back at him, his mouth twisting until he sighs, seeming to deflate on the exhale. “It’s not that I don’t want to, exactly. I think y’all are going to have a lot of fun with it.”

“So what’s bothering you?” Jack asks, gentling his voice.

The question makes Bittle drop his gaze again. “I —” he starts, and then goes quiet for a moment. “I don’t look like the rest of you. Obviously. Y’all are built like Greek statues, and I’m just…” He trails off and gestures briefly to himself.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jack says, because it’s a ridiculous statement. Bittle’s body is all stretched out in front of him right now, and it looks good. He’s shorter and skinnier than the other guys — there’s no getting around that — but he’s wearing short shorts, just like usual, and they show off the lean musculature of his legs. His shoulders are probably inches broader than when he’d shown up at Samwell last year. Jack blinks. “You do the same training as the rest of us. You look —” _How exactly do you plan to finish that sentence, Zimmermann? great? hot?_

“Fine,” he finishes, after a beat.

Bittle snorts. “Well, forgive me for sayin’ so, but you telling me I look… _fine_ ,” he imitates, “after the world’s longest pause doesn't really strike me as a vote of confidence.”

Jack looks down at his hands, picks at the fraying end of his sweatshirt sleeve. “I, uh —” he stumbles, then tilts his leg over to knock his knee into Bittle’s calf. “You’re a good-looking guy, Bittle. Now stop fishing for compliments.”

He hopes that Bittle takes that last part as the chirp that it is, and he glances up to see the ghost of a smile — a real one — flit across Bittle’s face before his expression settles back into something more serious. “Do you really mean that? Do you think…” he starts, his voice small and fading away entirely. He shakes his head a bit. “I’m sorry. I can’t ask that. I can’t ask _you_ to —”

“Hey,” Jack says, nudging him again. He waits until Bittle looks back up at him, his dark eyes doubtful. “I mean it. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Bittle replies. One corner of his mouth tilts up again. It might not be enthusiastic, but it’s genuine.

It warms Jack’s chest to see it, and he finds himself smiling back until he realizes that he needs to respond. With words. He must be tired; it’s late for him to still be awake. “Euh, seriously though, about the calendar thing? Don’t do it if you’re not comfortable. I’ll talk to Shitty if you don’t want to.”

Bittle nods thoughtfully. “I think I’m gonna sleep on it,” he says. “Mull it over. It’ll still be there tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Jack claps Bittle on the knee, but suddenly, he’s not sure if that's weird or not. This whole conversation has been kind of weird. He withdraws his hand quickly and stands. “I’m going to bed. You should too. Practice tomorrow.”

“I know,” Bittle grumbles, swinging his chair around to follow Jack’s progress back across the room.

“So quit looking up recipes and go to sleep,” Jack says, and he smiles privately at Bittle’s indignant protest as he shuts the door.

Crossing back to his own vedroom, Jack decides to call it a successful pep talk. He doesn’t have much to measure it against — he’s usually trying to help the guys improve their hockey skills or their on-ice confidence, not trying to convince them of their own hotness.

Jack closes his door, sits on his bed.

Hotness.

Bittle is hot.

He thinks Bittle is hot.

It feels like more of a revelation than it should. Jack’s not _blind_ , after all — there are actually a lot of good-looking guys on the team, and plenty of them could be described as hot, though Jack generally doesn’t. Until now. _Bittle is hot_ , he thinks, turning the idea over in his mind like a coin. A coin, maybe, that’s been lodged between sofa cushions for a time, just unearthed and turned to the light.

Huh.

Oh well, it doesn’t really matter.

*

In the end, Bittle proposes a compromise. He agrees to be in the calendar, but insists on wearing an apron instead of going completely topless. Shitty’s enthusiastic about the idea, declaring it _wicked hot, brah_ — which actually makes a doubtful shadow sweep over Bittle’s face, but he doesn’t change his mind. In fact he starts doing extra arm work in the weight room as soon as he tells Shitty he’s on board. Jack doesn’t think there’s any reason for it. They’re doing Bittle’s pictures first, right after Frozen Four regionals, so it’s not like there’s enough time for much to change.

Besides, Bittle’s arms already look perfectly fine.

It’s the kind of stray thought that’s been popping into Jack’s mind ever since that conversation in Bittle’s room. Jack doesn’t get it, not really. He understand that he finds Bittle attractive — he’s not _that_ dense — but he’s not sure why he can’t stop noticing it now that he’s admitted it to himself. Take Ransom, for example. Jack thinks that, objectively, he’s probably the best-looking guy on the team, but Jack’s heart doesn’t perk up when he comes downstairs to breakfast half-awake and half-dressed. When Jack’s watching tape, he doesn’t rewind Ransom’s most impressive plays, drinking them in hungrily before moving on.

He’s thankful that’s as far as the whole thing has intruded into hockey. Otherwise it would be _really_ upsetting.

Because honestly, the whole situation is putting Jack a little on edge — or, to be accurate, a little _more_ on edge. He can barely separate one edge from another these days. There are playoffs to worry about, and choosing a team to sign with, and the looming specter of graduation and the life changes associated with it. The closeted hockey player edge. The trying not to give in to thinking about his teammate while he’s taking a shower edge.

Mostly, Jack’s trying to ignore it altogether, turning the thoughts out of his head as soon as they enter. He has enough other things to worry about, clearly. That strategy isn’t really possible in this exact moment, however, because Jack is in his room, retrieving his camera so he can take Bittle’s picture for the calendar. He’s jittery, but he’s just going to go downstairs and get it over with as fast as he can. They all have practice and classes and homework. Bittle barely wants to do this at all. Everyone’s going to want to wrap it up quickly.

Jack loops the camera strap around his neck, takes a deep breath, then walks authoritatively out of his room and down the stairs. It’s almost like he’s in the tunnel, psyching himself up to step out onto the ice. That mindset gets him as far as the doorway to the kitchen, where he draws up abruptly at the sight that greets him.

The room is cleaner than Jack’s ever seen it, save the baking supplies and ingredients scattered across the countertop — he assumes to set the stage. Bittle’s made pies for the occasion, of course, and the air is heavy with the scent of fall spices. It’s warm and inviting, but oddly out of place in March. At the table, Ransom, Holster, and Lardo are eying up the baked goods like vultures at the edge of a fresh kill.

In the middle of it all, Bittle is talking to Shitty. He’s not facing Jack, so Jack is greeted with the bare, smooth, winterpale skin of his back, still warmer than Jack’s even though it hasn’t seen the sun in months. The sloping expanse is interrupted briefly by the apron strings cinched low around Bittle’s narrow waist and tied in a drooping bow, which rests just above shorts that are barely longer than the apron itself.

Shitty… might not have been wrong in his estimation of Bittle's wardrobe idea.

It’s Shitty who notices Jack first, glancing over to where Jack is frozen just inside the room, camera gripped tightly in one hand. “Jack-O! Glad you could join us. Let’s get this shit over with before these fucking pies disappear, yeah?” He casts a pointed glance at the group assembled around the table.

“Like you’re not going to eat a piece too,” Bittle scoffs, turning. The apron he’s wearing isn’t one that Jack’s seen on him before — it’s ruffled around the edges and emblazoned with a jaunty _Kiss the Cook!_ and a glittery pair of red lips. Bittle’s arms cross over the words, and Jack looks back up at his flushed face. “This was Shitty’s idea.”

“It fits the theme, brah,” Shitty says easily, “and it was on sale for, like, six dollars. You can add it to your collection when we’re done.”

The look on Bittle’s face clearly indicates that he will _not_ be adding the apron to his collection when the photoshoot is over, and his expression only grows more dismayed when Lardo pipes up from the table, “It’s hot, Bits. You look hot.”

“Comments from the peanut gallery are _not_ appreciated,” Bittle shoots back. “Do you have to be there?”

“Yes,” Holster replies. He glances pointedly at his watch, then at the pies on the counter.

Bittle huffs. “You know you’ll get to eat the pie whether you watch this part or not, right? I’ll come get you when it’s over. In fact, I’ll hand deliver these pies to the attic if you want to head on up there.”

“Well, what’s the fun in that?” Holster asks with an evil grin, and beside him, Ransom backs him up with an enthusiastic nod.

During all the back and forth, Jack has managed to relax his death grip on his camera, but he hasn’t moved away from the door. Now, he steps more fully into the room. “Guys, let’s just get started. Are you going to be uncomfortable with them sitting there, Bittle?”

“They can stay,” he grumbles. “As long as they keep quiet.”

Jack shoots an eyebrows-raised look at their audience, who are all either raising their hands in innocence or miming zipping their lips. Shitty takes one of the empty chairs. “I’ll let you get to it, my dudes,” he says grandly.

There’s a beat of silence, and Jack turns to find Bittle looking at him expectantly, like he’s waiting for instructions, his face slipping toward anxious. He _is_ waiting for instructions, Jack realizes. “Okay,” he says, trying to sound more confident than he feels. _Okay_ , he repeats to himself internally. He can do this — it’s not much different than what he does as captain, helping his teammates know how and where to move. “Do you —” he asks, halting, gesturing to the assemblage of kitchen equipment and ingredients on the counter behind Bittle, “do you have anything you want to start with?”

“Um…” Bittle glances over. “Well, I spent a lot of time on the pumpkin pie. It would be nice if that could be in the picture.”

It really is a good-looking pie, with elaborate piecrust leaves ringing the tin and artfully arranged on top. “Great,” Jack says. “Grab it.”

Bittle does, and then tilts the tin so that his crustwork is more visible. “Like this?”

“Just hang tight for a second — I need to check the exposure,” Jack mutters, bringing the camera up and snapping a picture. Bittle plasters a smile on his face a split second too late, and Jack quirks an eyebrow at him. “Save it for the real pictures, Bittle. I’m just making sure all my settings are right.”

“Oh.” Bittle blushes again, then jokes, “Do you have one that’ll add twenty pounds of muscle?”

Jack is saved from answering by Lardo calling over from the table, “If he did, he wouldn’t need it, Bits. I told you, you look _hot_.”

“Lord,” Bittle mumbles.

Meanwhile, Jack focuses resolutely on adjusting the aperture, dialing the knob on top of the camera in one direction, then the other, before returning it to its original setting. He doesn’t know what he’s doing; the exposure looks great. The _camera_ exposure. All that’s left to do is get started.

He looks back up at Bittle. “All right. I can see the pie just fine. Why don’t you — get a little more comfortable? Maybe lean against the counter?” Bittle is currently standing ramrod straight next to it.

“Okay,” Bittle says. He pops one hip and rests his weight against it, then smiles brightly as Jack lifts the camera again. Jack takes a few pictures, then tries a different angle, then another, but it’s not working. Bittle’s face is all wrong — his grin is stilted and artificial, and it’s making his eyes tight. And the longer Jack shoots, the more it’s starting to look like a grimace.

Jack sighs and lowers his arms. “This looks like I’m taking your senior portrait, Bittle.”

“Or your passport picture,” Holster calls over.

They both ignore him, but Bittle’s face still falls. “I know. I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to do.”

“It’s supposed to be a sexy picture, brah,” Shitty points out. “Do sexy.”

“I don’t —” Bittle starts, looking at Jack helplessly.

Jack can see that he’s hesitant, but casual isn’t working, and Shitty’s not wrong. “Maybe we should try it?” he asks, trying to make it more of a suggestion than an order.

Bittle sighs. “I guess I can try.” He glances down at the pie in his hands, then visibly steels himself and raises his eyes. He angles his body a bit more, looks at Jack with challenging eyes and pursed lips. A wolf whistle issues forth from the direction of the table, and Bittle interrupts himself to glare. Jack does the same. Lardo, Shitty, Ransom, and Holster all seem far too amused.

“Anyway,” Jack grumbles. He turns back to Bittle. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Bittle says, before assuming the same pose.

Jack shoots a few frames from various viewpoints, but it’s not really any better than the last set. What Bittle’s doing a caricature of sexiness, obviously forced and noticeably exaggerated. There’s tension in every line of his body. “I don’t think this is working either,” Jack finally admits.

Bittle sags against the counter. “I’m sorry. I guess it’s hard to look sexy when I don’t feel sexy.”

“You know what? Let’s forget about that for now,” Jack says. He lets the camera dangle from the strap around his neck. “Tell me about the pie.”

“What?”

“The pie,” Jack repeats. “Tell me about it.”

Bittle’s staring at him dubiously. “You think that if you get me talking, I’ll relax — is that it?” he asks.

“Nope.” Jack crosses his arms over his chest and rests his own hip against the counter. “I just want to hear about it.”

Bittle casts a doubtful glance at the pumpkin pie he’s still holding. “Well, all right. But I’m onto you, Mr. Zimmermann. You’ve had my pumpkin pie, of course, but I’ve really been wanting to try some more intricate crusts, so…” He’s off and chattering, his shoulders already less hunched, but Jack cuts him off.

“Not that pie,” he says, then nods at the apple pie on the counter. “ _That_ one.”

He does it because he thinks it’ll make Bittle laugh and distract him even more. He’s right. “You and your apple pie,” Bittle scoffs. “You’d think you were the all-American boy.”

Jack shrugs. “All North American, maybe. How did you make it?”

“You know very well how I made it.” Bittle twists to set the pumpkin pie down and slide the apple closer.

“Remind me.”

Bittle’s eyes are still downcast, and Jack can’t resist grabbing up his camera to snap a picture of Bittle’s face. It won’t work for the calendar — that much Jack already knows — but as a portrait, he thinks it’ll be good, with the sweep of Bittle’s eyelids down to his lashes, his soft half-smile, the sunlight from the window catching his hair.

The expression is gone in an instant, however — the very second that Bittle hears the click of the shutter. He looks up at Jack reproachfully, and Jack lets the camera go again, holding up his empty hands. “Sorry. Carry on.”

It’s easy to let Bittle ramble about his process, to relax into the warm cadence of his voice. Jack knows well enough by now that each pie is a journey, an experience. In this case, one where Bittle had been distracted — _anxious_ , Jack thinks — and hadn’t used enough sugar in the crust, resulting in the danger of overworking it when he tried to add more. When he starts talking about mixing up the filling, Jack carefully takes his camera in hand again. “What kind of apples did you use?”

Bittle notices what Jack's doing, but he doesn’t comment, and it doesn’t seem to interrupt his flow. He’s propped casually against the counter now, loose-limbed. “Well you see, there’s some debate about what’s best,” he says. “My Moomaw swears by Granny Smiths and _only_ Granny Smiths, but I like a little variety myself.” He reaches to drag a bowl of apples on the counter to sit beside the pie. “Aunt Judy mixes them with McIntosh apples, and her pie once took a ribbon at the county fair, but personally? I prefer something a little more crisp. Jonagolds are good when you can get them.”

“You’re doing great,” Jack murmurs, watching him, while Bittle contemplates the apples. “What kind did you use for this pie, Bittle? Imagine that you’re explaining it to someone special when you do. Your — your boyfriend. Or someone you like.” He feels silly saying it, but it’s something he remembers reading when his photography class was doing a portrait assignment.

For a moment, he’s afraid that he’s thrown Bittle for a loop. He stops talking and picks up one of the apples, turning it in his hand, studying it. Jack raises his camera. When Bittle looks up, his eyes are open and soft, and his cheeks are tinged pink. The apple gleams rosy in the afternoon light, and Jack’s finger tingles on the shutter button as he presses it.

“This is a honeycrisp,” Bittle says, looking right into the lens, his voice like syrup. “They’re sweet, and they don’t turn to mush when you bake ‘em. They keep some snap. I like to add these to the Granny Smiths, so the pie’s got some sweetness, but it’s still plenty tart. Delicious.”

“Good. That sounds — good,” Jack fumbles. He takes another picture to cover his awkwardness.

Bittle hums, and it’s followed by a beat of silence. They stare at each other through the camera lens.

“The crust,” Jack blurts.

“Hmmm?” Bittle hums again, this time in inquiry.

“Tell me more about the crust,” Jack instructs.

Bittle startles a bit and drops the apple back into the bowl. He turns more fully toward the counter and starts talking again, but it’s back to his normal chatter. Jack snaps a few additional frames, but he knows without looking that he doesn’t need to. Bittle’s still relaxed, and these pictures are fine, but Jack already has the shot.

It all wraps up not long after that: Bittle finishes his story, and Jack lowers the camera. He feels — strange. Shellshocked. He doesn’t know what to do, so he holds Bittle’s gaze and when he swallows, he’s afraid it’s audible.

They both jump when applause breaks out from the direction of the table, along with another bawdy whistle. Jack flashes their other Haus-mates a sheepish half-look, then tilts his face quickly back down, fishing the lens cap out of his pocket and sliding it into place. He’d forgotten that anyone else was there.

“Jack, Bits, that was _fucking amazing_ ,” Shitty enthuses.

“No _shit_ ,” Ransom adds. “Jack, have you considered doing photography for real?”

“Uh, no,” Jack replies, “I’m pretty set on hockey.”

Ransom continues like Jack hadn’t even spoken. “Because the way you calmed Bits right down was a thing of beauty.”

“If not photography, maybe wild animal training,” Holster chimes in.

“I’m not sure what that implies about me,” Bittle drawls, “but I don’t think I like it.”

Shitty cackles. “Pretty sure he’s calling you a _wild animal_ ,” he says, following the words up with a ridiculous-sounding growl.

Jack drops his camera to hang against his chest and turns toward the table. His eyes lock with Lardo’s, and he doesn’t know whether or not he’s surprised that she’s watching him with barely-disguised curiosity. Jack looks away. “Speaking of wild animals,” he says, “I can’t believe you guys are still just waiting over there. Pie’s on.”

It’s all the encouragement they need: chairs scrape the floor and Jack lets himself be nudged aside as his friends swarm the counter. When Lardo squeezes past him, she touches his arm and comments, voice low, “Nicely done, bro.”

“Thanks.”

And even though he steels himself for something more, she doesn’t say anything else, instead moving past him and joining the fray around the pie. Holster and Ransom demolish Bittle’s delicate crustwork in a matter of seconds, while Shitty tucks into the apple pie. Lardo shimmies in between them, snagging a bite of pecan pie drizzled in chocolate. They’re all eating straight out of the tins, despite Bittle hurrying to a cupboard to grab a stack of plates.

Jack takes advantage of their distraction and the racket of them all talking over each other to head for the door. He’s agitated and all too eager to escape to the confines of his own room.

A hand catches his arm just as he’s about to leave the kitchen, and Bittle’s voice cuts through the clamor: “Jack.”

He turns, and Bittle’s right there, smiling and holding a plate with a piece of apple pie. It’s not a slice so much as a mangled hunk, and Bittle looks sheepish as he passes it over. “I hope you’re not thinking of leaving without pie,” he says. “I managed to rescue this for you.”

Jack accepts it. “Thanks, Bittle. I, euh — I’m just gonna take this up to my room. I have reading.”

Bittle glances down at the floor, then back up at Jack’s face. “Thank _you_. I was dreading today, and you made it real easy.”

“Um,” Jack says, fumbling for the right thing to say. He doesn’t find it. “No problem.”

Then he beats a hasty retreat.

*

Jack doesn’t look at the pictures right away. He does his homework, watches more tape, and accepts Shitty’s offer of microwaved leftover pizza, which he delivers to Jack's room on a paper plate. When Shitty asks him how the pictures turned out, Jack says, “Good.”

It’s after ten when he transfers the files to his laptop. There’s muffled music coming from Bittle’s room, and the distant sound of video games being played downstairs. It seems important to wait until everyone else is preoccupied.

Jack opens the file folder with trepidation, not because he doesn’t want to look, but because he’s pretty sure this is going to upset the balance of things again. He reaches for the familiar: _it’s like watching a play to see if it worked_ , he thinks. _It’s like choosing a picture for a photography assignment_.

The photos from early on are awkward. Jack had expected as much, but he likes them anyway. There’s something about them that showcase how sweet Bittle is, silly when he’s trying too hard to be sexy. Jack gets so comfortable looking at them that it’s startling to reach the zoomed-in portrait of Bittle’s face, the one where he’s looking down at the pie and glowing, and Jack has to pause to let his heart beat.

The composition is a little off, if he’s being honest. Half a semester of photography critiques have allowed him to see that. But with some cropping, it’ll be really good — maybe one of the best pictures Jack’s ever taken. There’s a vulnerability about it, woven through with hints of happiness and pride as Bittle contemplates the pumpkin pie well out of frame. And he looks beautiful. Not _hot_ , not _sexy_ , but goldspun and beautiful.

Jack shakes himself and clicks to the next image. He’s not going to crop the picture, or edit it, or anything. He’s not sure he can bring himself to delete it, so he’ll leave it here on his hard drive and forget about it eventually, only to rediscover it sometime years down the road, maybe when he’s getting ready to trash the computer altogether and making sure he’s saved all his college papers.

But he’d forgotten what the next picture would be — _the_ shot, the one Jack knew would be the shot the moment he took it. He’d pulled back from his tight focus on Bittle’s face, so Bittle’s in the frame down to the curve of his hip. From his vantage point a head above Bittle, Jack had captured the pies and the bowl of apples on the counter in soft relief behind the bold outline of Bittle’s body. The cinch of the apron makes his waist look even narrower than usual, accentuating the way his shoulders are — not broad, exactly. Broad is never really the word for Bittle. He’s compact, but something about the apron shows off every inch of upper body muscle that he’s gained. Jack realizes, with a start, that he’s turned on. Actually, physically getting turned on, which has happened more in the past two weeks than it has since —

A sudden knock on his door almost sends Jack out of his seat.

“ _Merde_ ,” he hisses as he slaps his laptop shut. His pulse is pounding, and the rap hadn’t even been loud. Either way, the mood is sufficiently dead. Raising his voice, he calls, “Yeah?”

“Jack, can I come in?”

It’s Bittle. Of course it's Bittle.

“Sure, it’s open,” Jack says, and the door swings in to reveal Bittle, who looks like he’s trying to hide inside his Samwell sweatshirt.

“Hey,” he says, wrapping his arms around his middle.

“Hey,” Jack echoes. “What’s up?”

Bittle takes a step inside the room. “Nothing.”

Jack has no idea what to do with that. “Do you want to, euh — come in?” he asks, as Bittle moves to shut the door and perch on the edge of Jack’s mattress.

He’s quiet for a moment, and just when Jack’s opening his mouth to ask what’s wrong, Bittle blurts out, “How do they look?”

Jack’s so rattled that he just blinks at Bittle. Is he asking about — his shorts? his sandals? They’re all ratty old things that he wears around the Haus all the time. “How do what look?”

Bittle lets out an aggravated little huff. “The pictures, Jack. Of me. Do they… look okay?”

And Jack is caught, because Bittle’s face is so nervous and uncertain that he can’t just give a glib _yeah-they-look-great_ kind of answer and send Bittle on his way. “They do,” Jack says, and repeats it as Bittle’s expression goes skeptical. “They really do. Want to see?”

Bittle shrugs. “I suppose I should. Everyone else is going to.”

Jack grabs his laptop and moves to sit beside Bittle. Belatedly, he realizes what’s going to be on the screen when he unlocks the computer. “Um, I was just looking at them earlier,” he fibs. “And I think I found the one we should use.”

“Oh?” Bittle says. Jack glances over at him to see him gnawing on one corner of his lip.

“Yeah.” The laptop fires up, and Jack swivels it in Bittle’s direction. “What do you think?”

“Oh,” Bittle repeats, and his voice is different now. “That’s — not bad. I mean, I still don’t look like any of you boys, but that’s really not bad, is it?”

He’s leaning over far enough that the sleeve of Jack’s t-shirt is catching on his. And maybe Jack’s imagining it, but he swears Bittle still smells like pumpkin spice. He becomes suddenly, viscerally aware that the Bittle beside him is the same one on the screen, and he swallows. “Of course not,” he says, in answer to Bittle’s question. “I told you.”

Bittle scoffs gently. “Can I see the rest of them?”

“Sure.” Jack passes the computer over and gratefully puts a few inches of space between them.

The first images that Bittle flips through are good, and they put him a bit more at ease. All the shots are comfortable after Bittle had started talking to him like — like a lover. Jack shifts on the bed, and Bittle makes it to the end of the photoshoot, clicking through to the beginning of it when the slideshow starts over. “Oh _no_ ,” he groans as he keeps looking through the file, wincing at his own pinched smile on the screen. “This is more what I was expecting to see, lord.”

“You look fine,” Jack insists, because he does. Fine and uncomfortable.

“I look like someone’s poking a gun in my ribs off camera,” Bittle mutters. He gets to the forced sexy pictures next and makes an even more anguished noise. “Oh dear.”

Jack goes to reassure him again, but before he can get any words out, Bittle starts snickering. “Jack, these are _awful_.”

“They’re just —” Jack starts, but he doesn’t finish the thought, and Bittle jumps back in.

“Awful?” he repeats. Bittle looks at a few more, alternately grimacing and laughing. “Okay, these have to go.” He aims the mouse for the trash can icon.

“Hey!” Jack says, reaching for the laptop. “No deleting.”

Bittle twists to the side. “Why not? There’s no way I’m letting you use one of these, which means they only possible thing they’re good for is embarrassing me. Do you want these hanging up all over campus on my birthday? Because I don’t.”

“No one’s going to do that,” Jack insists. He makes a renewed effort to retrieve his computer, but Bittle shields it with his body.

“Really?” Bittle asks incredulously. “Not one single person on our team would think of doing that?”

Jack pauses, and that’s all the time Bittle needs to scoot and angle himself farther away, moving toward the pillows. Jack tries a more sudden approach, darting out a hand to try and sneak it between Bittle’s arm and his body, but Bittle is quick and clamps down on it, giggling, pinning Jack’s wrist against his side. When Jack wiggles his fingers, tickling, Bittle yelps but doesn’t let go.

So Jack does the only thing he can do. He gets to his knees on the mattress and leans over Bittle’s other shoulder, trying to close the laptop. “Come on, Bittle, we haven’t —” he grits out as Bittle struggles, grinning even as Bittle’s skull almost connects with his jaw “— we haven’t officially decided which one we’re going to use yet.”

“Sure we have!”

“No we haven’t. Not all of us, anyway.”

“So the photographer decided, and the talent decided,” Bittle says, breathless from laughter and the tussle. He’s folded toward the computer, which is balanced against his knee, and he’s half-trapped under Jack’s weight, fending off Jack’s efforts with his free hand. “Who else is there?”

Jack tries to distract him by ruffling his hair and Bittle squirms. “The art director.”

“Who would that be? _Shitty_?”

“I guess so,” Jack says, and he makes a valiant lunge for the laptop, which Bittle isn’t really holding onto anymore. He manages to make contact with it, but can’t get a hold of it with Bittle swatting him away. All he really does is knock it out of its precarious balance, and it starts sliding down the pillow toward the floor.

Bittle immediately abandons the scuffle to catch it, and Jack does the same, nearly leaping over Bittle’s back. They ease back to their original positions, seated beside each other on the edge of the mattress, and Bittle reluctantly passes the laptop over. He’s pink-cheeked when he turns back to Jack, his hair mussed and leftover laughter shining in his eyes. “Please don’t break my computer,” Jack intones, but he’s well aware that it doesn’t come off very stern when he’s still smiling himself.

“That was all your fault, mister. Besides, out of all of us, you can just go buy yourself a new one,” Bittle adds, gentling the chirp with the fact that he’s still grinning.

“Maybe, but all my homework is on here. Do you really want me to have to rewrite my entire anthropology paper from scratch, Bittle? Do you?”

Bittle drops his eyes. His flush isn’t receding. “I suppose not.”

“Good.”

They lapse into a moment of silence, which Bittle breaks with a sudden, deep inhalation. “All right, well,” he begins, brisk and businesslike, “I’m going to try and finish up my reading tonight so I don’t have to rush it before class tomorrow. I suppose the choice about what to do with those pictures is yours, Mr. Zimmermann. Just — please don’t show the boys the, uh, quote-unquote _sexy_ ones, okay? Please? At least keep those ones private. I’m throwing myself on your mercy here, Jack.” His head is back up now, and he’s looking at Jack, pleading.

Jack shrugs. “I was planning on picking my top three or five favorites and just showing them those ones. They’re gonna choose the same one I did anyway.”

Bittle’s expression drops into a playful glare. “Oh, _you_.”

“Go do your reading, Bittle,” Jack says with a chuckle. And then, because he knows it’s Bittle, he adds, “Really do it so you can get a good night’s sleep. This is the playoffs.”

Bittle rolls his eyes, climbs to his feet, and heads for the door. “Yes sir, Captain sir.”

Jack carefully sets the laptop aside, and just as Bittle is about to leave, he calls, “Oh, hey —”

With one hand already on the doorknob, Bittle turns, making an inquisitive noise in his throat.

“The pictures,” Jack says, suddenly wishing he was better at eloquent advice, “they don’t look like Ransom or Holster or me because they look like you.”

However fumbling the words, it seems like the message hits home. Bittle’s face softens and a gentle smile lifts his lips. “Thanks, Jack. Good night.”

“Good night,” Jack echoes, and he can feel that he’s mirroring Bittle’s expression too.

Bittle slips out the door, leaving Jack alone with his pictures and his smile and his heart beating warm in his chest.

*

The very next morning, after a practice that’s sloppier than anyone would have liked, Lardo approaches Jack when he’s leaving the locker room. Her face is frequently quiet, but it’s serious now, tense in profile as she snags the sleeve of his jacket just above the wrist and tugs him to one side of the hall. “What’s up, Lards?” Jack asks, frowning.

“Hall and Murray pulled me into their office after practice,” she announces quietly. “I’ve got bad news.”

Jack’s mind whirls. What bad news could there possibly be just over a week before the Frozen Four? _Someone’s hurt_ , he thinks. Someone had managed to get themselves injured in the twenty extra minutes Jack had spent on the ice — slipped and fell in the shower maybe, broke a leg. But no, there would have been commotion, sirens. Someone’s been benched — _Jack’s_ been benched, or pulled off the first line, because practice went so badly. Maybe Samwell has been disqualified altogether, or the tournament’s been canceled or —

“Jack, stop it,” Lardo orders. “I can see your wheels turning. It’s about the calendar.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Jack says. “What about it?”

“Hall and Murray overheard some of the guys talking.” She gives Jack a significant look that says _Ransom and Holster_. “They asked me about it and said that even though we’re keeping Samwell out of it and not using the logo, we shouldn’t do it. We’ll get in trouble.”

Jack frowns. “I thought Shits looked into that and we’re okay.”

“I guess he didn’t look into it hard enough,” Lardo says with a shrug. “Dude’s got a lot going on. He’s mad stressed.”

That much, Jack knows to be true. Jack’s not sure that Shitty’s handling the transition from Samwell to what lies beyond any better than Jack himself is. “Yeah,” Jack agrees, “I think we all are.”

Lardo nods, but it does nothing to ease her pensive expression. “Anyway, they asked me to strongly suggest that you guys scrap the whole thing.”

“We will,” Jack says without hesitation. “We can’t do anything to jeopardize the team. Especially not right now. Why didn’t they just tell us themselves?”

“Plausible deniability,” Lardo replies. “If we decide not to take their advice and do something dumb, they know nothing about it.”

Jack gives a low whistle. “That’s serious.”

“Yeah,” Lardo confirms, pushing away from the wall.

She starts toward the door, and Jack holds it open for her as they leave Faber. “Okay, so we’ll just… sit everyone down and tell them.”

“They’ll be disappointed, but they’ll get over it,” Lardo says. “You dudes have plenty of other ideas for earning some cash. Ones that the NCAA won’t catch wind of.”

Although he’s not upset that they have to change course, Jack is aware that he’s agitated about something. There’s a voice in his head saying something that sounds suspiciously like, _all that for nothing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to the tumblr post for Chapter 1 [here](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/post/175320466952/so-much-more-than-something-27-zimbits-fic)!


	3. Chapter 2: The Bake Sale

The guys take the news about the calendar better than Jack had expected. Most of the disappointment comes from Ransom and Holster — who feel robbed of the opportunity to do a sexy photoshoot together — and from Shitty, who comments, “Well, shit. That was gonna be a main source of income, brahs.”

Shitty’s remorseful too. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m sorry. I fucked up. I thought we were covered under the first section of the bylaw and didn’t even get down to the nonpermissable shit about commercial products. Fucking dumb of me.” Jack gives him a light punch on the shoulder and tells him not to beat himself up.

There's palpable relief from Bittle.

They decide to move on to a bake sale after winning the Frozen Four.

*

As it turns out, planning a bake sale is poor consolation for losing the most important game they’ve ever played, but as distractions go, it serves its purpose.

The whole ordeal begins with a field trip to Dedham two days after their post-loss retreat to Samwell. One of Farmer’s teammates has a Costco membership courtesy of her parents, and Nursey knows a local student who can borrow his family’s van to cart everything back to campus. Farmer’s going, so Chowder tags along, and Dex somehow manages to invite himself while simultaneously making it seem like he doesn’t really want to go. Holster and Ransom have class, and Shitty is at the art building helping Lardo with some project or another. Jack finds himself at loose ends and, desperate to do anything other than rehash their championship defeat again, piles into the van with Bittle, the frogs, and their assorted friends and girlfriends.

He’s quiet for most of the short trip, but the general chaos in the vehicle more than makes up for it. Chowder, Farmer, and Farmer’s teammate all tumble into the back, and they chatter and laugh for the entire ride. Nursey is in the front seat since he knows Trevor, who’s driving, but he spends half his time twisted around and exchanging barbs with Dex, who’s squished into the abbreviated middle row with Bittle and Jack. Bittle’s a little subdued too, Jack notices, but he lets himself be coaxed into conversation.

He perks up considerably once they get to the store. Jack’s pretty sure he can attribute the twinkle in Bittle’s eye to things like twenty-five pound bags of flour and ten pound bags of sugar at bargain basement prices. As Bittle considers bags of chocolate chips that weigh about five pounds each, Jack leans over to speak directly into his ear. “You’re not getting a Costco membership, Bittle.”

“But Jack —” Bittle turns to him with a shining face “— these are only ten dollars!”

“You would fail out of school with access to bulk baking supplies,” Jack points out, plucking the bag from Bittle's hands and dropping it in the cart. “This is a one-time offer only. Come on, I think I can hear Dex and Nursey arguing a few aisles down.”

Bittle complains playfully about Jack’s admonition, and it’s good to see a real smile on his face again. It’s good to see Chowder and Farmer being their usual doting, enthusiastic selves; hell, it’s even good to listen to Dex and Nursey’s mutual aggravation society. It’s better than good to _feel_ something other than the dragging disappointment that Jack’s been living with since their return from New York.

The rest of the excursion is not unlike herding cats, but Jack lets himself be cast in the role of cat herder and does his level best to talk everyone out of unnecessary purchases (including, among other things, bottles of sriracha that would last Jack the rest of his life). Trevor takes advantage of the situation to buy an obscene amount of potato chips and granola bars, all while flirting awkwardly with Farmer’s teammate, who’s loading up on sports drinks. They manage to escape with a small mountain of baking supplies and plans to start in on brownies and chocolate chip cookies the following afternoon.

*

The first day of baking is even more of an adventure than shopping had been, but it’s far less successful.

The Haus kitchen isn’t exactly built for a large-scale baking operation, especially one involving multiple cooks. Nevertheless, Bittle had lined up several very enthusiastic volunteers, including everyone who lives in the Haus, Lardo, and the frogs minus Chowder, who’s in class all afternoon. Jack is sitting in a photography critique when they get started, but he heads back to the Haus immediately afterward. He expects to find Bittle cheerfully leading things, probably with some pop music soundtrack, and a table full of cooling treats.

When he swings the door open, however, he’s greeted instead by an acrid smell. He follows it to the kitchen, where he finds Bittle, disheveled and half-covered in flour, stirring a bowl of chocolate batter viciously and silently. He’s accompanied only by Dex and Ransom, who are equally quiet as they portion cookie dough onto pans. There _is_ music playing from a speaker in the corner, but it seems grotesquely out of place, cheerful nails scraping down the chalkboard that is the thick air of tension in the room.

“Hey guys,” Jack says cautiously. “How’s it going?”

“Just fine!” Bittle answers immediately, and although he doesn’t turn around, Jack can _hear_ his strained, entirely fake smile.

Ransom glances at Jack, then at Bittle, and says, “Could be better, dude. Could be better.”

Bittle doesn’t dispute the claim. His shoulders are set in a rigid line that doesn’t move much, even as he works.

Jack drops his bag into a chair and props his portfolio against it. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Oh, you know,” Bittle says, his voice a terrible mockery of his usual breezy tone, “Lardo left for some end-of-season stuff with Hall and Murray. Ollie dropped by, but he had an appointment with his adviser, so he couldn’t stay very long.” He lifts his hand to let some batter drip from the spoon, adds something (flour? powdered sugar?), and starts stirring again.

“The rest of them were dismissed,” Dex adds. He picks up the pan he’d been filling and transfers it to the oven.

Bittle hunches further.

With no explanation forthcoming, the room settles into an uneasy silence. Ransom breaks it by dropping his spoons back into the bowl of dough. “Jack, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve got a study group in twenty, so I need to get my ass to the library. You know how to scoop cookies, right?”

There’s a sigh from Bittle’s end of the kitchen. Jack frowns, not sure if that reaction is a comment on his cookie-scooping skills, which are perfectly adequate. He glances back over at Ransom and answers, “Yeah, I think I can handle it.”

“’Swawesome,” Ransom says. “See you, Dex. Bitty.” He shoots Jack a significant look as he scuttles from the room, relief written all over his features. Dex looks vaguely crabby — which isn’t unusual, so Jack’s not sure how much to read into it — but he just mutters _later man_ to Ransom, grabs his phone, and leans back against the counter, scrolling away.

Jack approaches Bittle carefully. He’s moved on to painstakingly scraping the batter into a pan, and he doesn’t look up. “Hey Bittle,” Jack says. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

Bittle lets out another sigh, quieter, the sound of it just reaching Jack’s ear, and he lowers his bowl and spoon. Jack’s expecting him to keep up the charade for at least a little while longer, the pasted-on smile, the forced cheer. He’s surprised when Bittle replies, his voice small, "No. It’s… all wrong.”

“Not all wrong,” Jack disagrees. He nods at the pan of brownie batter. “That looks good,” he says, then gestures toward the oven. “The cookies smell good.” They’re chocolate chips; there’s one batch cooling on the table already, and it’s chasing the bitter burning scent out of the air.

For the first time since Jack entered the room, Bittle angles toward him, but he keeps his eyes downcast. His face, usually bright, is drawn and pinched. “It’s not enough.”

“Not yet, maybe. But you’re just getting started.”

“ _No_ ,” Bittle insists, and Jack likes hearing a lick of fire in his voice, even if it’s born from frustration. It’s an improvement over the utter defeat of his previous tone. If this were a game, he’d want Bittle to be frustrated, not defeated. “We were _just getting started_ two and a half hours ago.”

Jack nods. “What happened?”

Behind them, Dex snorts. Bittle glowers and Jack shoots him an exasperated glare. “What?” Dex shrugs. “Everything that could have gone wrong did, that’s all. I’m gonna use the head. Be right back.”

As he leaves, Bittle finally allows himself to slump. “Oh, Jack,” he groans, “it’s all been such a disaster. You can’t even imagine.’

“Tell me,” Jack encourages, because he thinks it’ll help Bittle to get it all out.

Bittle considers that for a moment, but not for long. “Well, it all started out fine. _Mostly_ fine,” he corrects himself. “Y’know how Shitty’s been bothering me to make a few batches of _special_ baked goods to sell?” At Jack’s nod, he continues: “He started out pestering me again, and I told him the same thing I’ve been saying all along — I know I’ve made him things a couple of times, but there’s a difference between that and selling it. I’m pretty sure that would constitute drug dealing, and that’s a bit too risky for me. Lord, can you imagine me ending up in _jail_? My poor mama would never recover, and neither would I.”

Jack’s not sure that would be Bittle’s fate, but he’s relieved to see that Bittle seems more relaxed already, his muscles uncoiling as he starts to ramble. “So you said no,” Jack prompts.

“I said no,” Bittle confirms, his voice firm. “Again. We compromised, and I said I’d make one batch for him — _just_ for him, and Lardo or whoever, but _not_ to sell. Don’t get me wrong — I agree that we’d make a killing, but it’s just not worth it.”

“Is this it?” Jack asks, pointing to the pan on the counter.

“What? Oh, no. Those are just plain old brownies.”

“Good,” Jack says. Without further ado, he sticks his finger straight into the batter and then into his mouth.

Bittle gasps and swats at him. “ _Jack_! Those are for the _sale_!”

“My hands are clean,” Jack argues, trying to go back for seconds, letting Bittle thwart him at every turn.

“Not after you’ve had them in your _mouth_.” Bittle smooths over the spot that Jack had disrupted with a spatula, covers the pan with a towel, and slides it out of Jack’s reach. “Don’t be a menace, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“Never. So what happened with Shits?”

Bittle grimaces, but he doesn’t tense up again. “We made his batch first, so we could be sure to keep it separate from everything else. _That_ was a mistake. I turn around for two seconds and when I turn back, he and Nursey have downed about half the pan. I asked them to come back when they could be useful again. I don’t know where they disappeared to. And that was _after_ Nursey knocked over a bag of flour while we were making them. What a mess!”

Jack finds himself frowning. “Do you want me to talk to them?”

“No,” Bittle replies immediately, shaking his head. “I gave them a scolding, and to tell you the truth, I feel pretty bad about it now. It’s been a rough week for everyone, and we had plenty of people to help. And then it just got worse — Betsy was acting up, and Ollie ruined a whole batch of sugar cookie dough right before he left — I still don’t know what that boy did wrong, but it tasted _foul_ — and Lardo had to go too. And right after that, Holster burned the first pan of chocolate chips, and I — I just snapped.”

“It’s been a rough week for you too,” Jack points out. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I can’t help it!” Bittle exclaims. “Not when I was so hard on all of them. And poor Holster — he just forgot to turn on the timer. It could have happened to any one of us, and I gave him _such_ a dressing down. He must be so _mad_.”

Bittle’s probably not wrong, but Jack isn’t bothered by it. “You know how he is. He’ll get over it.”

“Well, I’m gonna make something special, just for him,” Bittle vows. His face goes endearingly earnest. “A blueberry pie, just as soon as we’re done with this bake sale nonsense.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” Jack says. “So am I up to speed? Or is there more I should know about?”

Bittle turns lean back against the counter, and his arms knot across his chest again. He avoids Jack’s eyes, looking out across the room instead. “That’s it. I mean — I suppose that’s most of it. I just…”

When Bittle’s voice trails away, Jack tries to draw him back out, gentling his tone. “You what?”

“I was supposed to turn this around,” Bittle finally goes on, sounding utterly dejected. “We’re already not getting any money from the calendar idea, and you heard the boys. That was going to be our main source of income. And we _have_ to get that roof fixed before summer. We can’t just leave it like this when everyone takes off. Plus —” he turns pleading eyes on Jack “— this is what I’m _good_ at. And what do I have to show for it? A half-eaten batch of weed brownies and one pan of chocolate chip cookies.”

“It’ll be two pans in about a minute and a half,” Jack points out, glancing at the oven timer.

“Jack,” Bittle says reproachfully.

“It’s going to be okay, Bittle.” Jack claps one hand onto his shoulder and ducks his head forward to make steady eye contact. “You lost a little bit of time —”

“And a lot of flour,” Bittle mutters.

“— and a lot of flour,” Jack amends. “But we can’t go back in time to change any of that, so we’ve got to move forward from here. Focus on what we can get done, not what went wrong before. So what can we get done with the rest of today?”

Jack wouldn’t consider that his best pep talk, but he can see a subtle change in Bittle’s expression, one that he recognizes from the ice. He’s finding his resolve. “Finish these chocolate chips and bake this pan of brownies,” he says.

“Good. What else?”

“Mix up a batch of sugar cookies.”

“Definitely.”

Bittle perks up even further. “And frost ‘em and decorate ‘em.”

Jack’s not sure he’ll be any good at that, but he’s not going to stop Bittle’s momentum now. “Yes.”

“And another batch of brownies in between, while we’re waiting for the cookies to cool.”

Jack grins at him. “That sounds like a plan, Bittle.”

Bittle grins right back, and Jack can’t deny that his pulse trips a bit at the sight of it, thrills because he’s the one that put it there. In that moment they’re caught, just smiling at each other.

And then the oven timer rattles across the kitchen like an alarm clock angrily shaking off rust, and they both jump a mile. Bittle gasps as they break eye contact, pressing a hand to the center of his chest. Jack’s heart races even faster after the jolt of adrenaline, but Dex strolls in casually — almost like he’d been waiting outside the door, Jack thinks. He looks over at Dex suspiciously, and Dex flashes him a discreet thumbs-up. Jack’s brow furrows. _What_ , he mouths.

Dex can’t _know_. How could he possibly know? Or is Jack so obvious now that someone he’s not even that close to can read the feelings he’s trying to hide from himself?

“Way to talk him down,” Dex hisses, as Bittle is retrieving the cookies. “Captain.”

Relief hits Jack like a blast of hot air from the oven. He shrugs and grimaces. It’s supposed to be a smile, but it’s not. Dex doesn’t seem to care one way or the other, and Bittle doesn’t see any of it. He’s got his back turned as he transfers the cookies from the pan to onto a wire rack. It helps them cool faster, as he’s explained to Jack before.

“No problem,” Jack mutters to Dex.

The rest of the afternoon goes much more smoothly. Dex follows instructions efficiently and without complaint. Jack definitely _isn’t_ great at decorating sugar cookies, but he’s certainly better at it than when he’d tried his hand at weaving a pie crust for that food class he’d shared with Bittle the previous semester. Jack remembers that day well, when they’d tossed flour at each other and teased and had a heart-to-heart about Jack’s future plans and _crisse_ — he should have seen this coming sooner, shouldn’t he?

*

By the time everyone else turns back up, they’ve hatched a plan about how to get the rest of the baking done. The lion’s share of it will be done the next day, with Bittle at the wheel. He’s sketched up a schedule for his assistants — no more than can work comfortably in the Haus kitchen, and Jack and Dex have already signed up for as many shifts as they can, since they clearly work well as a team. (Jack, privately, thinks of them as a pretty damn good line, even though Dex is a d-man.) Although Jack is sure that Bittle is planning to skip several classes to pull everything off, he doesn’t say anything. He’s not thrilled about it, but he’s not Bittle’s captain anymore, and he’s certainly not Bittle’s keeper.

Lardo returns from her meeting first, right in the middle of sugar cookie frosting. She pulls up a chair without hesitation and begins frosting and decorating two cookies to every one that Jack manages to finish. “That’s a solid effort, bro,” she says, nodding at his meager offering.

“Thanks,” Jack replies. “You’re kicking my ass though.”

“Yup, I am,” she agrees, and they exchange a smile.

Holster reappears next, and Jack watches, fascinated and rankling for reasons he doesn’t quite understand, as Bittle throws himself on the proverbial sword in apology. Jack thinks it’s a bit dramatic, but if there’s anyone who appreciates drama, it’s Holster. Mollified, he signs up to help out the next morning and disappears to the attic to study.

Lastly, Shitty and Nursey slink in, shamefaced. This time, the apologies flow both ways, and even Jack can’t keep up a stern facade for long.

They’re back on track.

*

When Jack gets back from class the next day, a few minutes late for his next baking shift because he’d been waylaid by his professor on the way out the door, he finds Bittle alone in the kitchen. Jack pauses for a moment, just inside the doorway, looking on in confusion — where’s everybody else? — and then it morphs into something else.

It’s not quite like the day of Bittle’s photoshoot. Bittle’s wearing a lot more clothes, for one thing — well-fitted jeans cuffed at the ankle and a gray t-shirt, but once again he’s got an apron cinched tight around his waist. Instead of holding himself stiff, he’s moving a little to the beat of the pop music bubbling from his laptop, and he’s humming the melody too as he effortlessly cracks eggs. Everything about him screams that he’s in his element. Comfortable. Happy. It’s making Jack’s chest swell with something warm and unfamiliar.

He shakes himself, clears his throat, and enters the room. “Hey, Bittle. Did you kick everyone else out again?”

Bittle looks over his shoulder, beaming, which does nothing to slow the affection seeping through Jack’s veins. “No! Oh, Jack, it’s going so much better today. This is the last batch of brownies already, and then it’s time to start on pies. I think we’re even ahead of schedule! I feel so ridiculous for all the fuss and bother yesterday.”

“There’s no reason to feel ridiculous,” Jack says as he reaches the counter. “Isn’t Dex supposed to be here?”

“He’s working on a group project for some programming thing,” Bittle replies with an airy wave of his hand. “They had to reschedule at the last minute for an assignment that’s due next week. He’ll be here when he can. But that does mean you should get started, because you’ll have to peel and slice all those apples by yourself while I work on the crust.”

Jack looks over and — it’s a lot of apples. They’d been able to talk Bittle out of doing _all_ pies, but they hadn’t been able to talk him into doing _no_ pies. He’s agreed to stick to one kind for ease of preparation, and apparently that means processing at least two dozen apples, half red and half green. Something of what Jack’s thinking must read on his face, because Bittle trills out a bright little laugh and pats his arm. “Don’t look so worried. I’ll help you finish up while the dough chills.”

“If I don’t finish first,” Jack says, regaining his footing as he takes up a paring knife.

“Well now, that sounds like a challenge,” Bittle drawls.

Jack answers only with a pointed look and an arched eyebrow as he starts peeling the first apple, a green-skinned Granny Smith. He knows he’ll never win, but he likes the way Bittle chuckles as he starts measuring flour.

They work in near silence for a time — Bittle does start humming again as he mixes up the brownie batter — until Jack finishes the first apple and takes up a second one, this time with red flesh. “Keep the red and the green ones separate,” Bittle advises him, nodding to the bowls in front of Jack on the counter. “I want to try and get them evenly distributed. And make sure you mix them up with some lemon juice so they don’t brown too fast.”

“Are these the ones you told me about when we were taking your pictures?” Jack asks, reaching back for the memory. “Jonagolds?”

“You remember that?” Bittle asks, quietly like maybe Jack isn’t supposed to hear, much less answer. Jack peeks over at him; he’s scraping the last of the batter into a pan and looks pink. “No, no. There aren’t many fancy options at Costco. Just honeycrisp.” He turns to put the brownies in the oven.

Jack nods. “I like those.”

“They’ll do. If I were making these for a nice dinner or something, I’d try to rustle up something better. For a college bake sale, they’ll be plenty good.”

Before knowing Bittle, it would never have occurred to Jack that there might be different kinds of apples that could be baked into a pie based on specific situations. The knowledge of it seems to come as naturally to Bittle as hockey does to Jack — which means it’s the result of a lot of practice and passion. He ponders that, and asks, “Are you going to keep baking after college, Bittle?”

Bittle responds with a snort. “Of course, silly.”

“No, I don’t mean like that,” Jack says. “I mean — for your career. Do you think you’ll open a bakery or become a chef or something?”

“Oh lord, Jack, I don’t know.” Bittle pauses after he says it. He’s started sifting flour for the pie crust, but he goes still as he continues, more thoughtfully, “Baking for a living sounds wonderful, but I don’t think I have the business sense to open a bakery, or the focus. Can you imagine me writing a business plan? Keeping the books?” He makes a derisive noise. “Maybe I can be — oh, I don’t know. A personal chef for someone famous.”

“Beyoncé?” Jack suggests, and Bittle sighs.

“Can you _imagine_?” Bittle repeats, his voice taking on an entirely different tone. “That would be the absolute _dream_. But honestly, I don’t really know. Maybe I’ll write cookbooks. Turn my blog into a cooking show. I don’t have it all figured out yet. There’s plenty of time for that, isn’t there?” He sounds more than eager to change the subject. “Not all of us have known what we’re going to do with our lives since we emerged from the womb, like _some_ people.” He’s standing too far away to hip-check Jack, but the smile he flashes over hits Jack the same way.

It also allows Jack to skate past the niggling voice in his head that’s pointing out that he took a fairly significant detour and almost didn’t get to realize his dream. He shoves the thought fully aside and replies, ruefully, “Well, I may know what I want to do, but I don’t know where.”

Bittle nods slowly. “You haven’t decided yet?” he asks. The question sounds deliberately light.

“I — might have,” Jack says. Bittle looks surprised at the confession, and Jack is too. He hasn’t even admitted to himself that he’s ready to commit to a decision. Maybe that’s because he’s not _quite_ ready to commit yet, but there is one team, one place that’s felt better than the others, and Jack is — he’s terrified. Terrified of following a feeling and making the wrong choice. In the end, though, there’s only so far that logic can take him. He’s turned over every rational part of his choice, made multiple lists, let Ransom put together spreadsheets, talked about it with his parents, his teammates, his therapist. There are a few very good options — and one that just feels like _the_ option.

“It doesn’t exactly sound like you’re giving up the deets,” Bittle comments, when Jack doesn’t say anything more.

The word sits heavy on Jack’s tongue. He could tell Bittle — he’d probably be ecstatic. Jack can’t seem to force it out though. “Not yet,” Jack says. “That would… make it real.”

“Not necessarily,” Bittle disagrees, his voice gentle. “You can tell me and still change your mind. I wouldn’t tell anyone, promise.”

Jack still isn’t ready, but he feels more settled all the same. “Thanks, Bittle. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I just want to be really sure. It’s a huge decision, you know? I don’t want to make the wrong choice.”

“I don’t know if there is a wrong choice,” Bittle says, starting to work butter into the dough with his fingers.

That doesn’t make much sense to Jack, and he frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Jack,” Bittle starts, and this time he fixes Jack with an earnest look — a kind, earnest look accompanied by a tiny smile, “any team would be lucky to have you. You’re a great player, and a great teammate, and an even better leader. You’re going to make some team better just by signing with them, and then you get to live your dream. How amazing is that? And it’s going to be amazing no matter which team it ends up being.”

Bittle’s sweet, sincere confidence buoys Jack in a way he wasn’t expecting. He tries to tell himself that Bittle is biased, that it’s an extension of his demeanor, which is so sunny it can be blinding. He knows that Bittle is being honest — he’s radiating honesty — but so are his parents when they tell him similar things. Jack always feels like his parents have to say them, though, but Bittle — Bittle, who Jack treated poorly for so long, is under no such obligation, even if they can call each other friends now. Good friends.

Jack glances down the counter at him. Bittle’s gone back to the dough, continuing to incorporate the butter to his satisfaction. He’s humming faintly again, his face is relaxed, and he’s completely at ease.

“Thanks,” Jack says, and it comes out rough.

It’s not enough, but Bittle doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he smiles. “I speak only the truth, hon.”

“When I do sign, you’ll be the first to know,” Jack offers. He feels like he should give something in return. He wants to.

“Oh really?” Bittle asks, his voice playfully skeptical. “Before your parents?”

“The second,” Jack amends. “Well, third.”

Bittle hums, a disbelieving little sound. “Before Shits?”

They’re still not quite close enough for nudges or hip checks, so Jack tosses a piece of apple peel in his direction. Bittle retaliates with a flick of floury fingers. “When I sign, you’ll be one of the first _five to ten_ people to know,” Jack says. “Better?”

“As long as I hear it from you before I read it in the Swallow, I’ll be happy.”

“Well, that I can promise you.”

Jack gratefully lets Bittle redirect the conversation to more mundane topics after that — a paper Bittle’s having trouble with, his plans to work as a camp counselor again in the summer, Shitty’s haircut. Bittle has his dough ready long before Jack is done with the apples, of course, and he gives Jack a triumphant little “ _ha_!” as he eases it into the refrigerator to chill. Jack huffs dramatically, acting extra put out for Bittle’s benefit, but he’s fine letting Bittle have the victory. They make quick work of the remaining fruit together, and then Bittle hands him a yellowed recipe card covered in spidery handwriting. “Do you think you can handle mixing up more sugar cookies while I deal with the pie filling?” he asks. “Then that can chill while we put the pies together.”

In truth, Jack isn’t so sure. He can follow instructions, but living up to what is obviously a Bittle (or Phelps) family recipe is intimidating. “Are you sure you want to trust me with this?” he counters.

Bittle scoffs. “Sugar cookies are about the easiest thing I can give you to do. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Jack finds himself frowning at the card. “This isn’t really a recipe,” he points out. “It’s a list of ingredients and an oven temperature.” Jack revises his earlier assessment of his skill: he can follow instructions, when there are some to follow. The so-called recipe he’s holding includes none.

“You just work your way down,” Bittle says, squeezing more lemon juice over the mountains of sliced apple. “I’ll tell you what to do. Start with the butter and sugar; beat them together ‘til they’re creamy. Put those hockey muscles to work. Use the numbers for a triple batch.”

Jack is fairly confident in his ability to do the measuring part, anyway, so he starts with that. There’s something relaxing about having Bittle lead him through the recipe, the process so much less nerve-wracking when he knows he won’t be graded on the final result. He’s surprised to find that he’s having fun, and he warms every time Bittle tells him he’s doing well.

There truly isn’t much to the sugar cookie dough, except a huge amount of flour that he and Bittle take turns working in after Bittle finishes the pie filling. That’s also when the tasting starts. It’s Bittle’s fault. He tries a bite of the dough — to test the flavor and consistency, he says. His whole face lights with pleasure when he does, and he says to Jack, beaming, “This is _wonderful_!”

Jack can’t help but grin back. He feels flushed. “Yeah?” he ask, and takes his own taste. He doesn’t have much to compare it to, but he enjoys the sweetness on his tongue.

“Mm-hmm,” Bittle hums his agreement. “Still needs more flour though.” He sprinkles more over the dough and jumps to the hard work of stirring it in.

Bittle’s barely done incorporating it when Jack dips into the bowl for another sample, earning a reproving look. “You don’t really need to do that now,” Bittle admonishes. “We know the flavor’s good. Now we just need to get the right texture. This still won’t roll out right.”

“Okay,” Jack says. He filches another bite.

“Jack!” Bittle scolds, exasperated but laughing. He adds another measure of flour and takes up the spoon. “Stop!”

“Okay,” Jack repeats, but he watches. Waits.

And when the flour is sufficiently mixed in and Bittle leaves the far side of the bowl unguarded, Jack darts around him to pinch off another piece of dough and pop it in his mouth.

Bittle attempts to block him at the last second, but fails. As Jack backs away, laughing, he makes a protesting noise and turns around, brandishing the spoon, half playful and half menacing. “Jack Laurent Ziimmermann! What’s gotten into you? Aren’t you supposed to be a healthy eater?”

Jack shrugs. He is, but the season’s over. He can indulge a little, and if he indulges too much, he can tack some extra distance onto his next run. “It tastes good,” he says, “and I made it. Maybe I’m proud of myself, Bittle; did you ever think of that?”

“You _did_ do a good job —”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Jack interjects.

“— which is why we need to make sure to save some for the _paying customers_.”

“I ate enough for one cookie, maybe. I’ll spot you fifty cents.”

“You’ll spot me slapping your wrist the next time you pull a stunt like that,” Bittle threatens. “I oughta let you get this next batch of flour in, but I’m afraid you’d eat the whole bowl.”

Jack looks doubtfully at the dough, which is getting tougher and tougher to work. “It’s not ready yet?”

“Almost there,” Bittle says. He adds another sprinkle of flour. Jack leans casually against the counter next to him, and Bittle moves to block off his access, shielding the mixing bowl with his body.

Jack chuckles and slides minutely closer, watching over Bittle’s shoulder as he works. “Like I could ever eat ten pounds of cookie dough.”

“You have places to put it,” Bittle mutters.

“Oh?” Jack asks, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “And where would that be?”

“I — well —” Bittle sputters. “I’m sure you can think of somewhere.”

Jack hums. From where he’s standing, he can’t see much of Bittle’s expression, can’t judge whether he’s really annoyed or just playing the same game that Jack is. His view is mostly the curve of Bittle’s cheek and the steep slope from his ear, down his neck, to where the slant of his shoulder disappears under his t-shirt. Jack finds his eyes lingering there a moment, and he’s struck with the sudden, visceral realization that he could kiss Bittle there. The thought sideswipes him: he could bend down, angle his head, and press his lips right to Bittle’s skin. Or maybe he’d snake an arm around Bittle’s ribs and lift him until his neck is within Jack’s reach. Bittle’s solid, but he’s small, and Jack is strong; he could probably hoist Bittle up without much trouble.

Not without Bittle’s permission, of course. Jack hasn’t been friends with Shitty Knight for four years without taking a few things to heart. He couldn’t just spring something like that on Bittle when his back is turned. But if Bittle were facing him, and if he had Bittle’s consent —

He could kiss Bittle’s mouth.

The thought is as alarming as it is striking. He wonders what it would be like. Bittle’s been in the kitchen since morning; would he taste sweet, like samples of brownies and cookies and pie?

He becomes dimly aware that Bittle has stopped stirring.

The front door of the Haus slams open.

It’s Dex, of course, because Dex was supposed to be there the whole time. “Hey guys,” he calls as he enters the kitchen, dropping his bookbag in the corner. “Sorry I couldn’t be here sooner. Is there still shit to do?”

“Plenty of it,” Jack says, surprised to hear how normal his own voice sounds. He reaches around Bittle to snag another piece of dough that be barely tastes when he pops it in his mouth. His pulse is pounding.

Bittle shoots Jack a guarded look, then stares back into the bowl as he takes a taste for himself. “We, um — we just finished mixing up some sugar cookies, so this is going into the fridge to chill. We can put the pies together in the meantime, then start rolling these out.”

“’Swawesome,” Dex replies.

Jack stays where he is when Bittle steps away to grab plastic wrap to stretch over the mixing bowl. All three of them work hard for the rest of the afternoon, but none of them do much talking.

*

That night finds Jack sprawled on his bed, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. There’s a documentary playing on his laptop, but he’s paying it no attention. It’s not enough to distract him from the fact that something is going on.

(Bittle’s eyes are big and brown. His body is compact, but no less enticing for it.)

Jack so rarely feels like this that he’s not even entirely sure what _this_ is. Finding Bittle attractive is one thing, getting turned on by the abstract concept of him is another, but actually imagining what it might be like to kiss him is something else entirely. It’s a staggering thought, and it’s not going away. It doesn’t feel shocking in its newness, however; it’s more like discovering something that was already there, making itself known like a pebble in his shoe.

He can feel his musings slowly stirring up his hesitant libido. He’s not hard, but he could be, and Jack finds himself resting one hand over his groin. He can feel his gathering interest clearly through his athletic shorts, and his intention is to do something to stave the sensation off, but instead he lets his fingers flex and squeeze once. Heat races up his body to his face, and he lets out one harsh breath.

Then he stops. This isn’t about that.

(Bittle is kind and caring and funny. His confidence makes Jack feel calm. After the Frozen Four, his arms had kept Jack together when he wanted to shake apart.)

Every time he feels like this, it’s not just about sex, is it?

Jack removes his hands from his body entirely, props himself up against his pillow, and pulls his laptop over to flip to something else in his Netflix queue. If in-depth accounts of the massacre at Omaha Beach aren’t enough to kill the mood, nothing will.

*

All the baked goods sell quickly from the table they set up in front of the student union. Their net profit is just over eighty-two dollars.

Ransom and Holster are unperturbed, and crowd around Ransom’s computer with Excel open, trying to figure out how best to adjust their prices.

Meanwhile, Bittle puts his face in his hands and groans. “All that time and all that effort for eighty-two dollars. It doesn’t matter if you double the prices. We head out for the summer in a _month_. We’ll never earn the money and get the work done in time.”

“Okay,” Ransom says distractedly. “What about triple?”

“We’re selling to _college students_ ,” Bitty points out, “and it’s the end of the school year. I barely have two nickels to rub together, and most everyone else is in the same boat.”

He’s right, and Jack can see the dawning realization of it on the others’ faces.

Shitty still seems undaunted. “Onto plan C then,” he announces. “Topless car wash. Thursday. Be there or be square, my brahs.”

*

That night, Jack fidgets outside Bittle’s door. When he makes the decision to actually knock, he does it quickly, three sharp raps.

“Come in!” Bittle calls. He’s sitting on his bed, books in a pile beside him while he thumbs at his phone. “Oh, Jack. Hi!”

“Providence,” Jack blurts out.

Bittle’s brow furrows, and his confusion is enough to lift his attention from the screen. “What?”

Jack nudges the door behind him until it’s nearly shut. “I’m going to sign with the Providence Falconers. At least, I’m pretty sure I am. My agent is still talking to one or two other teams, but… yeah. It’s going to be Providence.”

A slow smile grows over Bittle’s face as he listens, and he looks almost rapturous by the time Jack finishes speaking. “Jack, that’s — I’m so happy for you. That sounds perfect.”

 _It seems perfect_ , Jack thinks. Even more so with Bittle beaming at him. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I feel pretty good about it.”

“You’ll only be an hour away,” Bittle comments, then quickly tacks on, “We can all come up and watch you play!”

“If I get ice time,” Jack adds.

Bittle scoffs. “ _If_ you get ice time. Your modesty doesn’t fool me a whit, Jack Zimmermann. But fine, have it your way — we can all come up and watch you keep that bench toasty warm.”

“That’s a plan,” Jack says with a chuckle.

“In between all those shifts you’re gonna play,” Bittle adds. He winks and Jack feels himself flush.

“Okay.” It feels inadequate, and in a sudden rush of honesty, Jack continues, “I hope you will. It would mean a lot.”

“Well, of course we will!” Bittle exclaims. “Just try and keep us away.”

That’s not quite what Jack meant, but in this case, he’s more comfortable being misunderstood. “All right. Well, we’re not announcing anything for a few more days, so keep it quiet, eh?” Bittle nods and mimes locking his lips with the utmost sincerity. “Thanks. Good night.”

“Good night, Jack,” he says, “and thank _you_. For telling me.”

“Of course.” Jack slips out the door, leaning back in at the last minute. “Oh, hey, Bittle?”

Bittle’s head jerks up. “Yeah?”

“Maybe crack one of those books,” Jack suggests. “What do you think?”

He retreats, laughing, when Bittle tosses a pillow in his direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to the tumblr post for Chapter 2 [here](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/post/175543032167/so-much-more-than-something-37-zimbits-fic)!


	4. Chapter 3: The Car Wash

The car wash comes together quickly, with much less fuss and monetary investment than the bake sale. They buy or borrow everything they need, and Lardo works some kind of team manager magic to secure space in a parking lot near a maintenance building where they can hook up a hose. A few handmade signs later, they’re — in Shitty’s words — _ready to rock and roll_.

Thursday might not be the _best_ day for a car wash, but Saturday is Spring C and Shitty refuses to let fundraising cut into their drinking time. Sunday is likewise out of the question, because everyone (save Jack) will likely be nursing a hangover. When Jack suggests that they hold the car wash on Saturday morning and wait until afternoon to get the fun started, he’s vociferously shouted down. “Good morning mimosas don’t taste right in the afternoon,” Shitty argues, and that’s the end of that.

So it’s Thursday, and they’re still generating a good deal of traffic. There’s a buzz circulating campus that the hockey team is half-naked and washing cars, and they’ve got a couple guys with signs out in the surrounding streets, rustling up customers off campus. Luckily, most of the steady stream of students, faculty, and townsfolk chuckle at the car wash concept, rather than getting pissed off about it. _Topless car wash $5_ , the signs say, but when their customers pull into the lot, Lardo informs them, “Topless car wash, five dollars. If you want us to wash the top half too, that’ll be ten.”

They’re working in pairs, and Jack hadn’t been able to stop himself from sidling up to Bittle right away. (”I’ll wash whatever you can’t reach, eh?” he’d said, and was probably a little too proud of himself in the face of Bittle’s mock affront.) Bittle’s the only one of them who’s wearing a shirt, and Jack’s not sure if it’s because he’s self conscious — like the photoshoot — or because he’s cold. They’ve lucked out weather-wise: it’s mostly sunny with highs climbing toward the upper sixties, which is unseasonable and welcome. Either way, it hardly matters; Ransom and Holster had started tossing water around as soon as they’d been able to, and Holster had dumped half a bucket over Bittle’s head earlier. His tank top is still damp and clinging in places, and Jack isn’t sure if that’s better or worse than it not being there at all. He just tries to concentrate on washing cars.

It’s hard with all the shenanigans going on around him. Cars are getting clean, but in between, his teammates are dodging around vehicles, spraying each other with the hose and using soaked sponges as weapons. Most of their customers are watching with amusement or unconcealed interest. Jack’s pretty sure there’s one group of female students that’s shown up in at least three different cars.

Bittle’s staying largely out of the fray, and Jack can’t really blame him — the air might be plenty warm, but the water _is_ freezing, as Bittle keeps reminding everyone who douses him. It’s why Jack is so surprised when a stream of cold water hits him directly between his shoulder blades in a moment of downtime, and he spins to see Bittle, giggling, with the hose in hand. Ransom is standing beside him, and Bittle lowers the nozzle, calling, “He made me do it!”

“Sure he did,” Jack says. He casually retrieves a sponge from a nearby bucket of water and starts advancing. Bittle yelps and hits him one last time with the hose — which he then makes the foolish decision to drop — and _runs_.

Bittle is fast, just like he is on the ice, darting and weaving around cars and their teammates. Jack isn’t quite as nimble, and Bittle stays just out of reach until he veers around a minivan and almost runs headlong into a delivery truck at the loading dock. He spins, but Jack is already there, blocking his escape route. “Jack, _no_ …” he warns, but Jack just waits for him to make his move.

And he does. After a quick feint to his right, Bittle dashes left — where Jack is waiting to catch him. He pulls Bittle, laughing-squirming-shrieking Bittle, back against his chest, holds the sponge above his head, and squeezes.

It makes Bittle struggle harder. “Jack! _Stop_! It’s _cold_.”

“You started it,” Jack reminds him, wringing out the sponge as best he can with one hand. Bittle wriggles free enough to turn in Jack’s grasp so they’re facing and smash a shammy cloth — which Jack hadn’t noticed in his fist — against Jack’s bare shoulder, dribbling cold water that spills over Jack's arm and back and chest, laughing as he does.

Jack tsks, unfazed. Bittle looks up to meet his eyes. And the moment changes.

They’re really close, Jack realizes dumbly. He’s still got one arm around Bittle’s waist, but Bittle isn’t trying to escape anymore. In fact, he’s standing stock still, his smile fading as his eyes widen. His hands are frozen on Jack’s body — one on his bicep and one on his shoulder. The chase is over, and Jack’s pulse is staying quick. They’re really close. They’re so, so close.

It’s Bittle who steps back, giving Jack a tiny shove in his haste, drawing his arms back against his own chest. Jack lets his fall limply. “I’m sorry. We should, um — we should see if there’s another car for us,” Bittle says, glancing toward the parking lot.

“Right.” Jack blinks, turns. He tries to find something to say that will bring the situation back to normal. He fails. “Right,” he repeats.

They walk back to the car wash in silence, and spend the rest of the afternoon significantly more subdued than the rest of the team.

*

It bothers Jack.

It bothers him when Bittle won’t look him in the eye for the rest of the day. It bothers him when they get back to the Haus and Bittle takes a shower, then holes up in his room. It bothers him when Bittle doesn’t even come out to eat food, much less make any.

Jack doesn’t understand what it means. Well, except for the fact that he’s obviously given himself away. Bittle must have figured out that Jack isn’t straight and it’s — freaking him out? Making him hide in his bedroom? _That’s_ the part that Jack doesn’t get. Maybe if Bittle were another stereotypical hockey player jock, but Bittle’s gay himself.

Maybe Bittle had sensed Jack’s interest and he doesn’t feel the same way. It would probably be for the best if it’s the case, but it makes Jack’s stomach twist all the same.

With Bittle missing in action, Shitty makes a vat of spaghetti and dumps an entire jar of pasta sauce on it. He says it’s to celebrate the success of the car wash, which raised almost five hundred dollars. Jack chases his noodles with a protein shake and retreats to his own room. He tries to do some reading for class, but it’s hard to get past the first page. When he does, he forgets what was on it.

He wonders if he should try talking to Bittle. But what is there to say? He’s not sure that he wants to broach the topic of his sexual orientation if Bittle hasn’t figured it out already.

Jack sighs and flips the page back again. He’s still staring at it when he hears a tentative knock. “Yeah?” he calls.

The door opens a scant few inches. “Jack?” It’s Bittle, because of course it’s Bittle.

Despite a staggering jolt of nerves, Jack strives for a casual tone. “Come on in.”

He swivels in his chair to watch as Bittle enters, eyes downcast. Bittle closes the door with a barely-audible _click_ and says, “I think we should talk.”

Jack heart clenches, but he manages a passably normal “okay” in response.

Bittle shuffles before speaking again, twice taking deep breaths like he’s about to start, then releasing them in frustrated whooshes of air. Although Jack wants to fidget out of his skin, he manages to wait Bittle out. “I just… I wanted to —” Bittle finally starts, then continues in a rush, “I just wanted to apologize. If I’m — if I’m making you uncomfortable. I know there have been, um, things lately that might… I just know it’s different when it’s someone like me, who’s, you know. Gay. I _know_ that can make things different, and that for straight guys like you it might be… uncomfortable,” he repeats. “So I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” Jack blurts.

At some point during his rambling apology, Bittle had peeled his eyes away from his feet, but only to do what appears to be a detailed inspection of Jack’s ceiling. Now, though, his gaze snaps back to Jack’s face and his brow furrows. “You’re not…?”

“Uncomfortable,” Jack clarifies quickly. The other words are there too — _or straight_ — never closer to slipping out, but at the same time, his tongue is suddenly leaden in his mouth, his throat coated with sawdust.

“Oh,” Bittle replies. His face is still confused, and the subtle changes in his expression make Jack think that he’s turning that admission over in his mind. “Then what… what’s…” Bittle’s voice trails away.

Jack might be going into cardiac arrest. Except that would mean stopping, wouldn’t it? Like _arrêter_? Jack doesn’t remember what it felt like when his heart stopped before, but that’s definitely not what’s happening now. It’s thundering in his chest, so hard that it’s almost painful. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Then I don’t understand,” Bittle eventually continues. “Um, what’s going on, I mean. Because there’s something going on, isn’t there? If it were someone else, I’d think… I’d think.” He doesn’t say what he’d think.

Even though Jack doesn’t remember making the conscious decision to stand, he’s up and out of his chair. It only takes a jerky step or two to put himself right in front of Bittle, who’s staring at him with evident surprise, wide-eyed and flushed. “I’m not —” Jack swallows, so loud he’s sure the whole campus can hear it “— uncomfortable.”

“Oh,” Bittle breathes, his voice small, the word more air than sound.

Jack reaches out, a conscious choice that makes him feel like he’s pushing through something, something that shatters like glass as he takes careful hold of Bittle’s shoulder with one hand... as he raises the other to BIttle’s jaw to guide him into a kiss. He moves deliberately in case there’s any chance he’s reading the situation wrong, but he’s not: Bittle’s eyes fall shut, and after a single frozen moment of contact, he pushes shakily into the pressure of Jack’s lips.

It’s not perfect, Jack supposes. Maybe Jack’s hunched over in a way that’s going to get uncomfortable fast, and maybe their mouths aren’t aligned exactly right, and maybe there should have been some kind of discussion first but — but every cell in Jack’s body is _singing_. It feels like knocking in a game-winning goal. It feels like the moment he realizes he’s _going_ to knock in a game winning goal, the rush of adrenaline and heightening of his senses when he sees the opening and just has to connect.

When the initial shock of what he’s doing wears off, Jack pulls back briefly, but only to reposition, because he does _not_ want this to stop. He checks Bittle’s face when he does — just to be sure and because he can’t resist sneaking a peek — finds Bittle waiting with eyes closed and mouth softly parted, and that’s all the invitation Jack needs. He lowers his head again, slotting their lips together this time, taking Bittle’s bottom one, then giving Bittle his.

He becomes aware that Bittle’s hands are fisted on his chest when they flatten out and wrap around the back of his neck. Bittle goes up on tiptoes and Jack steadies him, bringing them almost flush. It has the happy side effect of deepening the kiss, and Jack takes it farther, teasing Bittle’s lips with his tongue. Bittle makes a breathy noise when he does, and Jack can feel the fine tremors in his body.

It’s enough to make Jack draw away again, and his mouth separates from Bittle’s with a slick noise. “Bittle,” he mutters, practically gasps because he’s breathing _hard_ , “should we —?”

 _Talk_ , he thinks he’s going to say, but Bittle interrupts him. “Just… kiss me,” he whispers, and his fingers go tight at Jack’s nape. “Just kiss me.”

Jack’s not sure if that’s the right thing to do, but he has Bittle’s consent if he can measure it in enthusiasm. That much is evident in the way Bittle surges up onto his toes again. Jack can’t help but find some relief in it; he’s not that great at talking anyway.

It gets heated this time, and fast, but Jack does his best to keep it from crossing over into frantic. He suspects — though he doesn’t know for sure — that this is all new for Bittle, and he doesn’t want to push things too far or too fast. He keeps his touches safe, putting his hands on Bittle’s back and arms and neck, stroking over the soft hair at the back of his head. Bittle keeps a tight grip on his t-shirt, but he responds eagerly to every press of Jack’s mouth, every swipe of his tongue. Jack wishes he could pick Bittle up so they’d be on the same level, or walk him back to the bed, but he doesn’t. He’s pretty sure that would be the definition of _too far and too fast_.

Jack has no idea how long they’ve been at it or how long they might have kept going if not for the intrusion of thundering footsteps on the stairs. “Jack!” Shitty’s voice rings out. “You aren’t going to fucking believe this!”

Bittle all but leaps out of Jack’s arms. He looks dazed, but collects himself quickly, flying to the door to lock it, just seconds before Shitty thumps into it from the other side. “Jack, come on! Open up.”

“I’m studying, Shits,” Jack calls. He sounds gravelly, but there’s not much he can do about it. “Can it wait?” He stares at Bittle while he speaks. Bittle is still huddled at the door, somehow pale and flushed simultaneously, his lips swollen and his expression — totally freaked out.

“I need to talk to you,” Shitty says. “Two minutes, dude.”

“Later,” Jack barks.

“Ohh-kay.”

Shitty’s voice fades away, but Jack jumps into action anyway, because he knows better. He flings himself at their shared bathroom door, turning the lock. “He’ll try this one next,” he mutters, and sure enough, the knob rattles as soon as he gets the words out.

“Jack, for real, brah. This is serious.”

“Go,” Jack hisses at Bittle. Bittle hesitates, but not for long. He unlocks the door and slips through, closing it quietly behind him. Jack presses his eyes shut and takes a measured breath; it’s definitely not how he’d have wanted the moment with Bittle to end. Louder, he says to Shitty, “What is it? I really need to finish some reading.”

“It’s about the car wash. We fucked up.”

“Hang on.” Jack sighs again, trying to collect himself. He can only hope that he looks better than Bittle, who had clearly been kissed within an inch of his life. The thought does nothing for the residual heat in Jack’s face, but he has no choice other than opening the door. “What?”

Shitty greets him with an arched eyebrow. “Dude, you don’t sound or look like you were studying.”

Jack’s beleaguered heart gives a spasm, but he just asks dryly, “Oh yeah, what does it look like I was doing?”

“Jackin’ the beanstalk,” Shitty replies matter-of-factly. “You’re all red.”

“That’s because I’m annoyed,” Jack tries, but it doesn’t seem like Shitty is buying it.

“Hey, no judgment here. Masturbation is healthy, m’dude.”

Jack decides it’s best to just change the subject. He doesn’t have enough brainpower to spar anyway. “How did we fuck up the car wash?”

It works; Shitty heaves a huge sigh and enters the room to drop down heavily onto Jack’s bed. “Apparently we scratched some townie’s car and we’re gonna owe her, like, two hundred bucks. Probably a rock in someone’s bucket or some shit.”

“That sucks,” Jack comments. He sits in his desk chair again and faces away from Shitty. He’s still reeling; he’s still _shaking_ , and he balls his hands into fists. He’d kissed Bittle. He’d kissed _Bittle_. He’d _kissed_ Bittle, long and hard and a lot. He could say as much. Shitty would be surprised, but supportive, Jack’s sure. Not that it matters, because Jack isn’t actually ready to tell him anything.

“Well, you sure seem broken up about it,” Shitty says. “This fundraising isn’t going so well, y’know? This puts us back under five hundred.”

“So just let me pay to fix the roof,” Jack suggests. It comes out more irritated than he intended, and he immediately feels bad for snapping.

Shitty sounds wounded when he finally responds. “You get why we don’t want you to do that, right?”

Jack scrubs a hand over his face. “I do. I’m sorry. I just —”

“You were just rubbing one out to deal with end-of-the-year stress and I interrupted you, I get it. I’d be pissed off too,” Shitty says. He hefts himself back up and heads for the bathroom door. “I’ll just leave you to it.”

“I’m not…” Jack starts, but he doesn’t bother finishing the sentence. It’s better to let Shitty come to his own conclusions than have him be curious about what Jack’s been up to anyway. “Bye, Shitty.”

Shitty answers with a cackle, and he slams the door on his way out.

After he’s gone, Jack tries to focus on getting some oxygen. He’s not having an actual anxiety attack — and he fleetingly congratulates himself for that — but he is just plain old, garden variety worried that he’s fucked everything up. The feeling only gets worse as the endorphin rush wears off — and there had definitely been one of those, because kissing Bittle had been… good. Really good.

Not that Jack can enjoy the memory of it, not when he’s sitting here alone and BIttle is — he has no idea where Bittle is, or what he’s doing, or what he’s thinking. Again.

Jack moves across the room in a daze to flop onto his bed. He retrieves his phone and thumbs it open, staring at his last text exchange with Bittle, a few comments about the weather for the car wash that now seem as mundane as anything. Jack wants to say something, he _needs_ to say something, but what? The real thing to do would be to go across the hall and talk to Bittle directly, but Jack finds that he lacks the courage.

What he finally types is: _Everything okay, Bittle?_

It’s wrong; he knows it’s all wrong the moment he hits send, but there’s no way to retrieve it, so he tosses his phone face-down on the mattress, and then flips over, doing the same thing himself.

When his phone buzzes, he can barely bring himself to look at it. He doesn’t hold out for long, though, because the only thing worse than knowing is not knowing.

 _Everything is fine_ , Bittle’s message reads.

The lie is obvious and it makes Jack’s heart plummet into the pit of his stomach. There are no chirps, no smiley faces, no teasing references to things that Jack doesn’t understand. After a moment, Jack sends another text: _Should we talk?_

Waiting for the answer is akin to torture. Jack feels a year older when the answer finally arrives: _Maybe later? I think I need some time to think_.

The words hit Jack like a punch to the gut. Time to think is rarely a good thing in his estimation, but he certainly can’t force Bittle to do something he doesn’t want to do.

 _Okay_ , Jack replies. _Good night._

 _Good night, Jack_ , Bittle types back, still without emotion.

Jack tosses his phone down beside him on the bed and rolls over.

He doesn’t sleep well.

*

When Jack wakes up the next morning — or _gets_ up, more accurately — he changes immediately into running gear. He thinks it’ll be grounding to do something normal, and unless Bittle had slept as fitfully as Jack, there’s no way he’ll be around to talk to yet anyway. Whether he’s awake or not, Bittle’s door is shut when Jack leaves his room, and the kitchen is notably empty.

Running goes about as well as sleeping did. Jack finds himself unable to get into a good rhythm, and his very breath seems to be working against him. He gets a stitch in his side, his knees complain, and his mind races.

Realistically, Jack knows that any fear that Bittle would tell someone isn't likely to be realized. And even if he did, Jack is pretty sure that the team would be supportive and understand how important it is for him to prove himself before the media gets any (more) information about him that they can twist into scandal, so Jack pushes that particular worry aside. That just leaves room for a worse one: that he may have ruined one of the most important friendships of his life.

The harder the run gets, the more Jack pushes himself to settle into it, and by the time he returns to the Haus, he’s shaky and soaked with sweat. He takes a moment to brace his hands on his knees, dragging in several rasping breaths. That — probably wasn’t wise, but there are worse ways to deal with anxiety.

When Jack collects himself and pushes the front door open, he’s greeted by the smell of breakfast cooking. That can only mean one thing.

It would be easy for Jack to take the cowardly way out and go straight to his room. He can get water in the bathroom, and he knows he has a protein bar or two sitting around. He just doesn’t think he could stand not seeing how Bittle reacts to him. Or not seeing Bittle at all, knowing he’s there.

Jack heads for the kitchen.

Bittle is — thankfully — alone, and the room is oddly quiet. At first, Jack is shocked not to hear music, but he realizes a moment later, when there’s no response to his tentative greeting, that Bittle has earbuds in. He seems smaller than usual, and more still, just standing in front of the oven, back turned, spatula at the ready.

Jack approaches cautiously, waiting until Bittle flips the pancakes he’s got going, not wanting to startle him in the middle of the process. Bittle does jump a mile when Jack gently touches his shoulder and repeats, “Bittle.”

“Jack!” he exclaims, pulling his earbuds out to dangle around his neck. A flush washes across the pale of his cheeks and he stammers, “I didn’t know you were up.”

“I went for a run,” Jack explains, perhaps unnecessarily.

“Oh.”

Bittle doesn’t seem inclined to add anything more, and his eyes jump back and forth between Jack’s, like he’s searching for something. He’s clearly nervous, and suddenly, despite all of Jack’s own anxiety, he wants nothing more than to make Bittle feel more comfortable. He forces a smile, wills his own expression to smooth out, and says, softly, “Hey.”

He must do something right, because Bittle’s face relaxes a little, and he replies with an equally low “hey.” One corner of his lips twitches up.

“Bittle, I —”

“Oh, thank fuckin’ god, someone’s up,” a boisterous voice interjects, cutting across the moment. It’s Shitty, interrupting them for the second time in less than twelve hours. Jack sighs in frustration and pivots away from Bittle, turning to rummage in the fridge. “Listen, brahs, this shit with the money for the roof is fuckin’ bothering me, but I think I have a way to make up some money from that car wash bullshit.”

“What’s that?” Bittle asks, and Jack sneaks a peek to see him focusing intently on his pancakes, face still pink.

“So, it’s Spring C tomorrow, right?”

“We’re not selling weed brownies,” Bittle says immediately.

Shitty snorts. “Bits, don’t fret. You have impressed upon me the importance of not funding the roof through illegal enterprises. However, I ask you to consider this; Massachusetts has a very legal, very lucrative recycling program.”

“Recycling,” Bittle echoes, deadpan. Privately, Jack agrees with every ounce of doubt he manages to infuse into the word.

“ _Chyeah_! Do you know how many cans and bottles of beer are going to be consumed on this campus tomorrow? We’ll just run around on Sunday and collect as many as we can, turn ‘em in, and make a pretty penny.”

Jack unearths a protein shake behind some takeout leftovers and takes it to the table, where Shitty’s already taken a seat. “How much do they even give you per can?” he asks.

“Five cents,” Shitty says happily. “I know it’s not a lot, but think about it. Every two hundred cans is ten bucks.”

“Two _hundred_ for only ten dollars?” Bittle asks incredulously. He still doesn’t turn from the stove.

Shitty shrugs. “Frat row probably goes through two hundred cans an hour on your average Saturday, and this is Spring-fuckin’-C. I already texted the frogs — Chowder’s got Farms collecting everything from the volleyball team, and Nursey and Dex are going to clean out their dorm.”

Bittle slides two fresh pancakes onto the pile on a plate beside him, then brings it to the table. He glances just briefly at Jack before turning his attention to Shitty. “It’s not the worst idea we’ve had,” he admits, “but it seems like an awful lot of work, especially the morning after Spring C. You’re really gonna make everyone get up early to run around campus picking up beer cans before the garbage trucks come through?”

“Why? Are you expecting to be too hungover?” Shitty asks archly.

“I’m expecting _all of us_ to be too hungover,” Bitty retorts. “Well, maybe not Jack.” His eyes flicker over to meet Jack’s again, then quickly away as he turns to retrieve silverware. “And Shitty, I expect you to be the primary reason.”

Shitty raises his hands in innocence. “I merely provide, Bits. It’s up to each of you fine young gentlemen to decide how much you want to consume.”

Even Jack has to scoff at that, and before Shitty can defend himself, Holster lumbers down the stairs and into the room. “Morning, dudes,” he greets them with a yawn, ruffling Bittle’s hair as he passes by to grab a carton of orange juice from the fridge.

“Hey, Holtzy,” Shitty calls, “do I or do I not give all Haus residents the choice of whether or not to get shwasted for Spring C?”

“Of course you do,” Holster says, after a swig of juice directly from the container. He sits on the other side of the table with a plate and spears several pancakes. “Just not much of one.”

“Fuckin’ right,” Shitty mutters.

A bottle of syrup appears in the middle of the table, placed firmly there by Bittle’s hand. “I’ve gotta finish a paper for my ten-thirty, so I’m taking a plate to my room. Make sure to save something for Rans.”

“He can have all the butter and syrup he wants,” Holster promises, snagging another pancake.

“Let the record show that I tried,” Bittle says. He shoots one last surreptitious look at Jack, then spins away. “You boys enjoy now.”

Jack frowns down at his pancakes. In his distraction, he’s dumped way too much syrup on them, and they suddenly look soggy and unappealing. It’s not even _good_ syrup, because for some ungodly reason, Bittle prefers the imitation stuff. Jack takes a bite anyway, and it’s sickly sweet on his tongue, masking the delicious base that is Bittle’s pancakes. He considers making an excuse and following Bittle up, but he has no idea if that’s something that Bittle wants.

Shitty ropes him into making plans for can collecting anyway, and then Jack has to shower if he has any hopes of making it to class on time, and the opportunity passes.

*

By some cruel twist of fate, Jack doesn’t get the chance to talk to Bittle for the rest of the day. Their classes keep them occupied at different times, and when Jack gets back to the Haus in the afternoon, he learns that Bittle is meeting with his adviser. He leaves for the dining hall before Bittle appears again, and when he gets back, Bittle isn’t anywhere to be found. There are several guys gathered in the living room playing a video game, and they tell Jack that Bittle’s out with Shitty and Lardo, getting ice cream then going to the on-campus movie. Jack could probably find them if he wanted, but he opts to go to his room instead. He’s asleep before the group gets back.

Saturday morning starts, of course, with mimosas. Shitty offers one to Jack out of politeness, and Jack demurs. Bittle already has one in hand, so Jack suspects that no meaningful conversations are going to happen today either.

He’s right, and he tries not to let that fact niggle, even though it wants to. Jack has no desire to ruin everyone else’s Spring C with his pouting. By the time they’re leaving for the concert itself, he’s even managed to get into the spirit of things, a little bit anyway. It just means ignoring the fact that Bittle, even tipsy, isn’t talking directly to him.

At least he doesn’t until after the concert.

Jack might not officially be the team captain anymore, but he takes it upon himself to try and round up his teammates and get them all moving in the direction of the Haus. Just when he thinks he’s accomplished it, he realizes he’s missing Bittle. Leaving everyone else in the care of Wicks, who seems semi-coherent, he backtracks and locates Bittle sitting on the grass in the midst of the dispersing crowd, looking forlornly at his phone.

“Coming, Bittle?” Jack asks. “Everyone else is headed back.”

Bittle looks up; he’s pretty drunk, though not as bad as Jack’s ever seen him. “I lost my shoe.”

“Do you want to look for it?”

“I did. It’s not here,” Bittle says, waving a hand aimlessly. “I can’t walk back like this.”

Jack crouches down so they’re at least on the same level. “Of course you can. You run around barefoot all the time.” He tries to sound encouraging.

“No, I can’t,” Bittle groans. “ _I’m_ the Spring C mess. I’ll cut myself.”

Jack’s not sure he follows the logic, but there probably isn’t a lot of that to start with. “Okay, well, what if I give you a lift?”

“What?”

“I’ll carry you.”

Bittle fixes him with as stern a look as he can probably manage. “Jack, you are not going to _carry me_ like some disaster victim from here to the Haus.”

“Not like _that_ ,” Jack says. “Come on.” He extends a hand, which Bittle looks at for a moment before taking, and carefully pulls Bittle to his feet. When he’s sure Bittle is steady enough, he turns and crouches again. “Hop on.”

He waits, but Bittle doesn’t move. “Are you — are you sure?” Bittle asks quietly, and he sounds a lot more clear-headed than he had just a few seconds ago.

Jack takes a careful breath. “Well, you won’t walk and I don’t have a car, so that doesn’t leave us with many options, eh? Come on. I’ve got your piggy back.”

It makes Bittle giggle — probably more than it should — and he steps forward to wrap his arms around Jack’s neck. He hops, and it’s uncoordinated, but Jack manages to grab his thighs and hoist him up. Bittle’s skin is warm under his palms, his muscles firm. He’s more solid than he looks, but still easy to carry. It makes Jack’s blood rush through his veins, that he can feel so much of Bittle, even though he's trying not to make it about that. _Bittle’s drunk_ , he reminds himself. _Don’t be creepy_.

“Comfortable?” he asks, because Bittle’s holding himself stiffly, despite how loose all the alcohol has made him.

“Yeah,” Bittle replies, his voice low, uncertain, and really, really close to Jack’s ear.

Jack swallows. “Then relax,” he says, giving Bittle a little jostle, then boosting him higher.

Bittle makes a surprised noise and tightens his grip on Jack’s neck. “Okay, okay, if you’re sure.”

“I am.” Jack speaks the words quietly, and he’s not sure if the way Bittle’s legs tighten against his sides is a reaction to them or not.

Jack sets out for the Haus. With each step he takes, Bittle slumps more languidly against him. He starts humming after a time, just quietly, nothing that Jack recognizes, of course. He doesn’t think it’s something from the concert, either. It’s nice, and Jack feels more at ease than he has in days, even enough to offer up a chirp: “What’s that you’re singing, Bittle? Shania Twain?”

It draws an irritated sound from Bittle. “You hush. That is not Ms. Twain and you know it. You’re the only country music fan here.”

“Hmmm,” Jack says. “Then it must be Taylor Swift.”

“ _No_.”

“Selena Gomez?”

Bittle laughs and thumps one hand against his chest. “Jaaack. How do you even know who that is?”

“I contain multitudes, Bittle. Now, I know you weren’t singing something by Beyonce.”

“I wasn’t!”

“I’m shocked,” Jack says, and he is.

“Well, I wasn’t,” Bittle insists with a note of triumph in his voice. “I wasn’t singing at all. I was humming.”

“Ah. That makes all the difference.”

Bittle hums again — agreement this time, not a tune — and after a brief silence, changes the subject, sounding more serious. “This is nice of you.”

The crowd has dwindled down to nothing around them, and it makes the whole endeavor startlingly more intimate. The night air is cooling fast, but Bittle’s weight is warm against Jack’s back and his proximity heats Jack the rest of the way through. He doesn’t need it — it’s not _that_ cold — but Jack can’t deny that it feels good, like sitting in the sun in the summer. In response to Bittle, he says, “It’s not a problem.”

“Still. Thank you.”

They’re approaching the Haus, and some protective part of Jack wants to see the endeavor through, to carry Bittle all the way up the stairs and make sure he ends up safely in bed, but the moment feels too tender to share with the rest of their Hausmates, most likely congregated in the living room with whoever else stumbled back with them. He’s not afraid that anyone would suspect anything — Bittle’s certainly drunk enough to need help getting home, and everyone else is probably too drunk to be suspicious of Jack’s intentions, however pure they are — but some part of him wants to keep this to himself, to both of them. Something special, private, just between Bittle and him.

Maybe Bittle’s feeling the same way, because as they turn up the short walkway to the porch, he pushes away from Jack’s neck and taps his shoulder. “You can set me down on the porch.”

“Think you’ll be safe from there?” Jack asks. He means it to be a chirp, but it doesn’t come out that way.

“You said it yourself — I run around barefoot here all the time.”

“Okay.” Jack mounts the porch steps, then turns and dips at the top to carefully deposit Bittle on the ground.

When he turns, they both pause. It’s like the end of a date, Jack thinks, not that he’s had many of those. Like a _first_ date, he amends, when the awkwardness of the moment overtakes him. They stand, and they stare, and neither one makes a move for the door. Jack doesn’t make a move toward Bittle either — he looks a lot more focused than Jack expected, but Jack isn’t about to do anything, given the circumstances. He’s hesitant to make a move out here in the open anyway, where any random Chad could be watching.

It’s Bittle who finally speaks up. “Thanks again, Jack. I’d probably still be sitting on the ground begging for someone on Twitter to help me if you hadn’t come along.”

“Like I would have left you there,” Jack says. “Who do you think I am, Bittle?”

“I don’t know,” Bittle replies, his voice low and serious against the quiet night air.

Jack nods, because that assessment is more than fair. “Well, I’m not the kind of person who would leave you sitting drunk in a field.”

“I know that much at least.”

“Good.”

Bittle drops his eyes and shuffles a half step toward the door. “Thanks again, Jack.”

“Any time.”

Bittle’s still a little unsteady on his feet, and despite all the reasons not to, Jack can’t help himself from guiding him through the door with one hand at the small of his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to tumblr post for Chapter 3 [here](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/post/175796354387/so-much-more-than-something-47-zimbits-fic)!


	5. Chapter 4: The Recycling

The morning after Spring C, Jack is unsurprisingly the first person out of bed. He’s still skeptical that the whole can-collecting idea is going to be worth it, but Shitty’s pretty determined about the whole fundraising thing, and he’d probably be pissed to wake up and find Jack gone. So Jack compromises: instead of heading out for a run, he clears a space in the living room and does some stretching exercises while he waits.

He does hear footsteps upstairs sooner than he’d expected, followed by what sounds like a series of small battles. Jack shakes his head and straightens up to grab a protein shake and start what he’s sure will be a much-needed pot of coffee. At least Shitty’s not using an air horn this time.

Bittle appears a few minutes later, and he looks pale and unhappy and definitely worse for wear. It doesn’t stop Jack’s heart from tripping once at the sight of him, and again when Bittle glances up and their eyes catch. “Oh!” Bittle says softly. A tinge of pink stains his cheeks — or maybe it’s just the light? — and he reaches up with one hand, smoothing down his hair. “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” Jack replies. He spoons out coffee while Bittle goes to the fridge and retrieves an egg carton. When Jack moves to the sink to fill the pot, Bittle sidles in next to him — which, of course, is probably just because he needs to retrieve a mixing bowl from a cupboard Jack is standing near. He pulls it down, wincing at the noise as it scrapes against its neighbor.

Jack turns off the water and crosses behind Bittle, staying in close proximity the whole time. He can’t help it that Bittle had chosen to work right between the sink and the coffee machine. “How are you feeling?”

Bittle snorts. “Like I got hit by a truck with _Spring C_ on the bumper,” he mutters, but he’s making quick work of cracking eggs all the same. His elbow brushes Jack’s from time to time as he does. “If you’re done with that, do you mind starting some toast?”

“Sure,” Jack says. He moves to Bittle’s other side again, but then Bittle circles him to get to the stove, and Jack leapfrogs him to pull butter and jam out of the refrigerator. It’s like they’re orbiting each other, staying closer than they have to, bound together by — something. They don’t talk, not about anything mundane or meaningful, not about anything at all, and they don’t touch beyond an unintentional whisper of fabric or skin, but Jack’s heart rate kicking up all the same. There hadn’t been a good opportunity for serious conversation yesterday, but maybe something had changed anyway.

The frustrating few inches of space between himself and Bittle are calling out for Jack to erase them, and not for any salacious reason. It’s clear that Bittle feels miserable, and Jack finds himself wanting to — to just wrap Bittle up in his arms, to let Bittle burrow into his chest to soothe his head. Somehow, it’s as shocking a realization as that moment a few short days ago when Jack had been standing right here wanting to kiss Bittle. He’d gotten to do that, so maybe he’ll get his chance to hold Bittle too — but not right now. Because soon enough, the other residents of the Haus are going to file in, as blank-eyed and sullen as Bittle. There's already a heavy tread on the stairs.

In short order, there’s a group of very hungover and unmotivated hockey players slumped at the table, sucking down coffee like it’s the elixir of life and picking at the food Bittle had managed to scrape together. It seems to have taken a lot out of him — he’s sitting with his chin resting on his hand like it weighs a thousand pounds, listlessly poking at his eggs but not eating them. Jack frowns and pauses at the fridge, grabbing a bottle of Gatorade before taking a seat. He slides it over to Bittle as he settles in next to him, and Bittle looks up in surprise. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

“Hey, what gives?” Ransom exclaims. He's more alert than the rest and gives Jack an accusatory look. “What do I have to do to get that kind of service?”

“Make breakfast,” Jack retorts, and adds, hoping to divert his attention, “You look perky.”

Beside him, there’s a groan from where Holster is almost facedown in his plate. “One of us puked last night, and one of us didn’t. Guess which one is which.”

Ransom shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I feel like traipsing around campus at ass-o-clock in the morning playing garbage man.”

He redirects his glare at Shitty who, although he looks like hell, is undaunted. “It’s almost nine, brah. Wouldn't you usually have, like, two advanced biology classes under your belt by now?”

“We’re up, y’all,” Bittle cuts in. “Let’s just get this over with so we can come back here and collapse.”

“Collapsing. Now that sounds like a fucking plan,” Holster mutters, but Shitty overrides him.

“All right, my men. My men of _action_ and _valor_. Our mission, should we choose to accept it — and we are fucking accepting it, so help me god and Wayne Gretzky — is to collect as many empties as we can between now and eleven bells. As we all know, because I briefed you fuckers Friday after practice, that’s when the garbage men _and women_ show up at the fine establishment that is Samwell University. They start at the north end of campus, so we might be able to work the south side until eleven-thirty or so. Are you with me?”

He’s met with a series of groans and a snorted laugh from Jack.

“I’ll fucking take it. Okay, Rans and Holtzy, you know every goddamn person here, so I’m gonna have you start working the res halls on the northeast side of campus. Charm the cans off ‘em. Bits, I’ll text you a list of houses that agreed to donate, and you and Jack can hit those up. The frogs and Farms will grab everything from the freshman dorms and women’s athletics. And I’ll be going with —” he pauses to regard them all seriously, before settling a cagey look on Ransom and Holster “— you two.”

Holster grimaces. “Why us?” he asks, spraying toast crumbs onto the table.

“Because these beautiful fuckers —” he gestures at Jack and Bittle “— can be trusted to be responsible. If I let you two wander off on your own, I’m going to find you an hour later crashed out on someone’s couch.”

Holster’s response is a single, extended middle finger.

“Don’t flip him off,” Ransom mutters. “He’s right. But if it makes you feel better, when he says that Jack and Bitty are responsible, he means Jack.”

“Hey!” Bittle cries, with more vehemence than Jack would have expected under the circumstances. He looks annoyed, but after a moment, his face relaxes back into exhaustion. “Yeah, okay, that’s fair.”

Shitty snorts. “Bits, I want you to remember that I love you, and that you said it, not me.” He rounds back on Ransom and Holster. “I also want to go with you guys so we can grab Lards and I can help her collect what we can from all her art friends,” he adds.

“Couldn’t have said that in the first place,” Holster grumbles.

“Damn right I couldn’t. All right, gentlemen, I’ll meet you at the front door in fifteen minutes. And in the meantime —” he stands “— I am going to find some pants.”

*

And that’s how Jack finds himself dragging a wagon that Shitty unearthed god-knows-where along Frat Row with Bittle, who’s wearing sunglasses despite the fact that it’s overcast. Even though all Jack has wanted is a few minutes alone with Bittle, the situation isn’t ideal. BIttle doesn’t feel well, so Jack doesn’t want to weigh him down in heavy conversation, and it’s not like these are things he can talk about out in the open anyway. So instead of talking, they shuffle along in heavy, awkward silence. Jack feels desperate to break it, but coming up with things to say has never been his strong suit.

Bittle’s usually good at that, but he seems content enough to continue on without speaking. The longer it lasts, the further Jack’s heart sinks — whatever else he’s feeling aside, his friendship with Bittle is one of the most important he’s ever managed to fumble his way into, and it’s really starting to seem like he’s fucked it up for good.

Jack is getting so lost in thought that he startles minutely when Bittle clears his throat and asks, “So, Jack, just a few weeks now until graduation. Are you ready?”

That Jack can answer without hesitation. “No. I’m not.”

He can tell that the answer surprises Bittle. His eyebrows tilt up over the frames of his sunglasses, and he angles his head toward Jack to peek over at him. “No? Not ready for all those bigger and better things? Which part is putting you off — the multimillion dollar paycheck? The chance to do what you love every day? Never having to study again? That last one would be enough for me.”

Jack chuckles, then sobers. “I really like it here, Bittle. I just don’t feel like I’m ready to leave yet.”

Bittle nods. “Samwell’s a pretty special place.”

“It is,” Jack agrees. He continues slowly, “And I think sometimes —” he takes a deep breath “— sometimes, you don’t realize just how much you might like something until it’s almost too late.” He feels naked when the words leave his mouth, naked down to his bones and terrified. The wait while Bittle mulls them over seems interminable, even though it only spans about five steps of sidewalk.

Finally, Bittle asks, “You didn’t realize before, that you like… Samwell?”

Jack can’t read his tone. He _hopes_ that he and Bittle are on the same page, but Bittle sounds oddly — blank. And if he and Bittle are having the same conversation, that doesn’t mean that Jack knows how to answer. Thinking back, of _course_ he’s liked Bittle, and for a long time now. He knows that last year, at the beginning of it all, he’d found Bittle annoying at best and a liability at worst. Jack isn’t entirely sure that he can pinpoint the moment it changed, the thing that transformed Bittle into an actual friend. It’s harder still to figure out when his feelings had morphed into something more meaningful than that, especially when he hadn’t made note of it at the time. On top of it all, Jack’s no poet.

“Yeah, I did,” he says quietly. “Just not… how much.”

Bittle takes a breath that shudders just enough for Jack to hear it. He starts to speak, but the door of the house they’re passing slams open, then shut. A girl with a messy bun trudges out, a straining backpack slung over one shoulder, and Bittle lets out a huff of air. “Jack, maybe we shouldn’t —”

“Yeah,” Jack agrees when Bittle pauses. “This probably isn’t, um, the best time or place to talk about this. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Bittle says. He consults his phone. “The first place on the list is this next house.”

When they’re done collecting a trash bag full of empty cans and bottles from an extremely hungover frat brother and continue on their way, Jack — almost desperate for some sense of normalcy — leans over to nudge Bittle’s shoulder and ask, “Did you ever find your shoe?”

Bittle peeks suspiciously at Jack from behind his shades. “I can’t tell if you’re chirping me right now or not.”

Jack shrugs. “It’s an honest question.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not a chirp,” Bittle points out, and he’s right, but he answers anyway. “Sadly, no. I was holding out a tiny little bit of hope that someone grabbed it on the way back to the Haus, but no such luck. A sacrifice to the Spring C gods, I suppose.”

A faint smile flits across Jack’s lips. “I suppose.”

“Luckily it was just an old loafer,” Bittle continues. He’s sounding more and more like himself. “I know better than to wear something that might get spilled on. Or worse.”

“Learned your lesson after Winter Screw, eh?” Jack teases.

Bittle groans out an expected, welcome _oh lord_ , and things are more comfortable after that. It’s not exactly the same as their easy rapport from _before_ , but nothing has been exactly the same since they’d put their mouths on each other. They’re able to make it through the next hour, at least, going back and forth from the Haus to drop the bags in a growing pile on the lawn because the wagon isn’t big enough to carry much. Nursey’s friend with the van is going to swing by to help them take everything to a collection center — he’s more than willing to do them a favor because he’s been dating Farmer’s teammate since their grocery trip.

They’re almost back to the Haus after their last stop when Jack nods across the street and says, “We should take theirs.”

Bittle glances over at the LAX house, where one of the Chads is dropping two plastic garbage bags at the curb. They hit the ground with a distinctive clatter. “The LAX bros?” Bittle asks incredulously. “They’d kill us.”

“Not if we go fast,” Jack says. “You’re faster than any of them.”

“On a good day, maybe.” They pull the wagon up next to the pile of bags they’ve already collected.

Jack shakes his head. “Any day. And I’m sure they’re as hungover as you are. Just look at how many cans they’ve got out there, and they’re all just up for grabs.” He can practically feel Bittle hesitating, considering, so he wheedles some more. “We’d be heroes, Bittle. Heroes.”

Bittle tilts his head toward Jack, and even though he’s still wearing the sunglasses, Jack can feel the weight of his squint. “You’re dead-set on this, aren’t you? How come?”

Truth be told, Jack’s not quite sure. As far as he can tell, it’s a lot of things all rolled up into one: he doesn’t want his time alone with Bittle to end, he wants to fuck with the LAX bros one last time before he graduates, he wants to enjoy college shenanigans while he still can, he wants to do something impulsive but not destructive. He settles on, “It’ll be fun?”

“Well, I’m not so sure about that,” Bittle says, “but they sure are leaving ‘em unguarded, aren’t they?”

Jack smiles at him, and Bittle smiles back, and that’s just about enough to make the whole endeavor worthwhile. “Come on.”

They cross the street with false nonchalance, and Jack thinks they’re in the clear to just grab the trash bags and run, but he realizes too late that there are two more guys on the side of the house, looking with wrinkled noses at a few pieces of battered patio furniture, which are covered with — something that Jack doesn’t care to investigate. He continues forward, unperturbed, even though Bittle is hissing at him through clenched teeth: “Jack, maybe we should just —”

“Hey!” one of the LAX bros yells. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Zimmermann?”

“Nothing,” Jack answers. He picks up one of the bags and nods for Bittle to grab the other.

“Are you — are you stealing our _garbage_?” the other one shouts. He looks dumbfounded.

“Looks that way,” Jack says.

“What the _fuck_?” the first guy repeats. He takes a step or two forward, and that’s when Jack sees it — he’s got a hose.

Jack nudges Bittle. “Run.”

“What?”

It’s too late. The guy is already lifting the nozzle, dousing them both while his companion yells, “Fuck _yeah_! Revenge is sweet, Zimmerdouche!”

Bittle cowers and yelps, so Jack grabs his wrist and takes off, releasing his hold when he’s sure Bittle is following. The LAX bros advance after them, but don’t give much chase once Jack and Bittle hit the street. Through it all, Jack keeps a hold on the bag he’d taken, and he’s pleased to see that Bittle did too. They add their loot to the pile they’ve collected, and Jack looks triumphantly back at the LAX house. He earns a middle finger for his troubles, and a pair of confused and disgusted looks.

When he turns around again, Bittle is grimacing and plucking at his shirt, which is wet in some places and soaked through in others. “I’m not entirely sure that was worth the risk,” he grouses.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Jack says. “But we made a couple extra bucks, and just imagine how impressed Shitty is going to be.”

Bittle scoffs. “That’s not a good enough reason to be happy I was just sprayed with a hose.”

They decide that the pile of cans and bottles can’t be left unsupervised, not with the Chads irritated and congregating. (”Like bees,” Bittle says, and Jack has to admit that it’s an apt comparison.) Luckily, they don’t have to wait for long, because Shitty and Lardo stroll up a few minutes later, each with another bag to add to their bounty. By the time they appear, Bittle is shivering.

Jack can’t resist a chirp. “How can you be cold? It’s April.”

Bittle glares at him. “You say that like it’s the same thing as _it’s warm_. People can be cold in whatever month they want,” he retorts. “And since y’all have enough people to keep this pile of garbage nice and safe, I’m going to go take a hot shower.”

“Whatever you need, Bittle,” Jack says. He hates to break the comfortable mood they’ve managed to achieve, but because Shitty and Lardo are otherwise occupied, he tacks on, “Maybe we can talk later?”

The suggestion is met with a measured breath from Bittle, who goes a little tense. “Okay,” he replies, with a nod and a smile that looks pasted-on and determined. “Just stop on by.”

“Okay,” Jack repeats, fighting off a frown.

Bittle heads for the Haus without saying anything else.

*

It’s later. It’s much later, after the cans and bottles had been sent off with Nursey and his friend, after lunch and naps and even some studying. It had just seemed prudent to Jack to wait, until Holster went off to meet with a study group, Ransom headed for the library, and Shitty walked Lardo back to her dorm. Then and only then did Jack muster up the courage to cross the hall and knock on Bittle’s door.

Bittle calls, “Come in!” and Jack does as he’s told, slipping in with a quiet greeting. Bittle’s on his bed, fiddling with his phone — of course — but when he sees Jack, he climbs to his feet. “Jack,” he says, his voice quiet. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Jack repeats himself. And then — he has no idea what to do or say, even though he’s been hoping for the chance to talk to Bittle, to sober, clear-headed Bittle, for days.

As it so happens, he doesn’t have to know, because Bittle skitters across the room, ducks around him, and locks the door. Jack’s breath catches in his throat at the click, but maybe Bittle doesn’t mean it like _that_. Maybe he just wants to make sure that they’re uninterrupted while they hash things out. Maybe Jack’s just so attracted to Bittle now that he’s making something as simple as the turning of a lock into something it’s not.

But when he turns, Bittle is right there, his eyes huge and his cheeks pink. He’s wringing his hands, but not for long. In two quick, determined steps, he moves to stand right in front of Jack, then reaches to grab the back of Jack’s neck while he goes up on tiptoes, bringing their mouths together in one clumsy, wonderful move.

Jack goes along with it. There’s some part of him that feels powerless to do anything else; even though this isn’t what he came for, the heat that’s flaring between them is so heady and so _good_. He takes hold of Bittle around his waist, finds that Bittle is shaking, so he wraps his arms more fully around Bittle and sweeps a hand up and down his back, trying to comfort. The slide of their mouths is growing slick already, but Jack manages to break away to bend down and press a messy kiss to Bittle’s jaw near his ear. “Sshhh,” he whispers, even though he wants to soothe, not hush. His brain is barely online. “Okay?”

Bittle answers with a nod that Jack feels against his cheek. All he says, though, is “ _Jack_ ,” and he takes Jack’s face between his palms and presses their lips together again. There’s not a lot of finesse, but it isn’t really a time for finesse.

The whole thing only gets more uncoordinated when Bittle starts nudging him backwards, and Jack manages to get with the program enough to lead them in an awkward shuffle across the room, right over to Bittle’s bed. He intends to sit on the edge of the mattress and draw Bittle carefully down, but Bittle keeps pushing at him impatiently, until Jack’s lying down and Bittle is stretched out beside him. And they’re still kissing.

It’s going too far, Jack thinks. Too far without any discussion of what’s happening or why. He draws back from Bittle again, to murmur his name and try to slow things down. Bittle responds with a moaned _Jack_ , and that doesn’t make Jack feel like slowing down at all. Then Bittle scoots forward, hitches his leg onto Jack’s hip, and Jack can _feel_ him, feel both of them pressed together.

Bittle freezes, panting, for one suspended moment, and then he’s shoving Jack back against the wall while scrambling in the other direction. He ends up sprawled on his back, hands covering his face, while Jack watches in horror, afraid that he might be crying. “Bittle?” he asks.

Through his shaking hands, Bittle draws a ragged breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Jack, I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Jack says. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“Yes, I do.” There’s a pause, during which Bittle sucks in another lungful of air. Jack wants to reach out to him and offer some kind of comfort, but he’s scared to, sure it would be the wrong thing to do, so he stays huddled against the wall and waits. “I can’t do this,” Bittle finally continues, his voice barely audible at first, but it gains volume as he picks up steam. “I can’t, Jack. I can’t be your — your gay panic or some experiment you’re trying because you’ve got senioritis, even as much as I want to. I — I like you too much.”

Jack feels a complicated swirl of emotions as a result, everything from indignation — which isn’t fair, because what is Bittle supposed to think? — to blossoming warmth at the words _I like you too much_. He huffs, part laugh and part frustration and part fondness, and knows that the opportunity for honesty has finally come.

“Bittle,” he says, firm and low. He considers asking Bittle to uncover his eyes, but maybe it’ll be easier this way. “I’m not gay. But any panic I had about liking guys was, euh… a long time ago.”

Then there’s no need to ask Bittle to show his face, because his hands fly away, and Jack finds himself the subject of a very wide-eyed stare. Bittle’s cheeks are blotchy, his expression confused and wondrous all at once, and he looks so precious that Jack just wants to kiss him again, but he manages to stay still. “You’re —” Bittle starts, and his brow furrows a little “— you’re bi?”

Jack shrugs the shoulder that’s not tucked into the juncture of the bed and the wall. “Yeah,” he says. It’s not exactly right, but it’s the best word he has to communicate the way he feels. He has been attracted to both men and women. He doesn't think it happens as much as it does for other guys on the team, so there might be something more there, some term that he's heard Shitty use, but it fits well enough. “And that other stuff you said? Panicking and experimenting? I would never do that to you.”

Bittle is quiet for a moment, and then he says, “Pinch me.”

Jack blinks. “What?”

“This has gotta be a dream, right? Or I’m gonna wake up in the hospital with another concussion. Because that’s the only way I’d ever end up with a specimen like Jack Zimmermann in my bed, telling me he — that he kissed me because he _wanted_ to kiss me,” Bittle blurts out, his face flaming.

A smile quirks Jack’s lips, and some of the tension in his chest starts to ease. He shifts away from the wall, reaches out to brush at Bittle’s hair and cup his face, and Bittle turns toward him like he’s being drawn in. “Jack Zimmermann is in your bed,” Jack says, “telling you he wants to kiss you again because he wants to kiss you.”

So he does. Firmly.

Bittle gasps when Jack draws back to find a more comfortable angle. “This is so much better than a concussion,” he breathes.

Jack pauses, fractions of an inch away from Bittle’s mouth, and feints suddenly to the side, pressing his lips to the soft skin just under Bittle’s jaw and chuckling. “Well, you know how to make a guy feel special.”

It draws a giggle out of Bittle, and he squirms around until he can run his fingers into Jack’s hair. “Oh hush you, and get back up here.”

Jack lifts his head and takes a moment to admire Bittle, from his shy, joyful eyes to his flushed skin to his eager, bitten mouth. He did it; he got here, and in the moment, he feels nothing but happy. He can worry about the consequences and the what-nows later.

They make out for what feels like hours. It’s probably not — maybe it’s an hour, maybe it’s half that — but it’s long enough for Jack to map Bittle’s jaw and ears and throat, to kiss until his lips feel used and swollen and like they might belong to someone else entirely. It’s long enough that Bittle gets comfortable and starts stroking Jack’s back and shoulders, moves to touch the back of Jack’s neck, dropping teasing fingertips under the collar of Jack’s t-shirt. It’s an innocent touch, but Jack feels it to the base of his spine, to the tips of his toes.

It’s long enough that they shimmy closer to each other, and closer still, until Bittle falls onto the mattress and Jack ends up half on top of him. He tries to keep his hips back, but Bittle keeps _scooching_ , and then they’re pressed flush. Bittle’s hand makes a tight fist at the small of Jack’s back, and for a few glorious seconds, he’s straining and shifting against Jack’s body, dragging a low groan from Jack’s throat. But almost as quickly, he pushes away.

He doesn’t go far this time, a couple of inches at best. Shaking, he gasps out, “Jack, I —”

“It’s okay,” Jack says automatically.

Bittle nods, his eyes closed, and Jack feels the brush of his hair, a whisper of skin. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he whispers.

“I know.”

When Jack is sure that Bittle isn’t retreating any farther, he cups Bittle’s face and, in a more tender gesture this time, brings their mouths back together. Bittle accepts the kiss readily and makes it something more on his own terms, weaving a hand into Jack’s hair and sweeping his tongue over Jack’s lips, then past them.

Finally, it’s long enough that the sound of the door crashing open downstairs intrudes on the secret pocket of contentment they’ve created, followed by heavy footsteps and excited voices. Reluctantly, they part, and Bittle lets out a sigh as they do. Jack can’t help but watch as his tongue darts out to run over his lips, which look — kissed. His whole face looks like it belongs to someone who’s been thoroughly kissed. It’s a great look, and all Jack wants is to see it again. He’s still seeing it in front of him, and he already can’t wait to see it again.

“We should probably, um…” Bittle says, eyes downcast.

“Yeah,” Jack agrees. It takes what feels like a Herculean effort, but he pushes himself up on one arm and, when Bittle mirrors his actions, swings his legs over the side of the mattress to sit up. They stay there, side by side, just for a moment, but Jack knows he shouldn’t linger. He’s sure that they’ll be hunted out soon, to hear the news of how much money they got in exchange for capitalizing on the leftovers of Spring C debauchery and to plan another last-ditch effort to raise whatever else they need. Graduation is less than a month away.

Jack finds more strength of mind to push those thoughts away, and more yet to force himself to stand. Bittle pops up beside him, and even though it’s only the journey of a few steps over to the door, Jack takes his hand to make it. It’s smaller than Jack’s own, but Bittle’s grip is firm. It feels good. Everything about Bittle feels good.

They part at Bittle’s door, quietly and without much theater. Jack bends to give Bittle a brief but steady kiss, and Bittle starts grinning so hard into it that Jack might as well be trying to make a move on his teeth. Bittle breaks away with a giggle. “Sorry! I’m sorry. I just can’t believe…” He trails off but stays beaming up at Jack.

Jack can’t help but smile back, wide and unrestrained. “Me neither.”

“Okay, okay, get out of here, you big lug,” Bittle says, letting go of Jack’s hand and turning him bodily toward the door. “You know Shitty’s gonna come looking for you in five minutes or less.”

That much is definitely true. Jack angles himself out the door, whispering “Bye, Bits,” as he goes. The endearment feels more precious than it should, when it’s something that the guys call Bittle all the time, but it brings fresh heat to Jack’s face as he slips across the hall.

In his own room, Jack flops onto his bed and grins at the ceiling. They may not have talked everything out, but he feels better than he has in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to tumblr post for Chapter 4 [here](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/post/176037040852/so-much-more-than-something-57-zimbits-fic)!


	6. Chapter 5: The Auction

On Monday morning, Shitty greets them with an update: their recycling donation had made up nearly half the money they’d lost at the car wash, and their next and last-ditch effort to pull together what’s left will be a service auction, held the following Saturday. “That gives us a week to promote, my dudes,” he informs them. “Bits, social media that shit. Rans and Holster, work those Facebook friends. I’m gonna make some signs, and Jack, you can help me hang them up.”

“Okay,” Jack says absently. He’s only half checked into the conversation, and he’s much more interested in sneaking peeks at Bittle, who’s fussing around near the oven. Bittle is doing an admirable job of acting like everything is normal, but at the same time, he’s peeking right back, and sometimes when his eyes meet Jack’s, his entire face goes pink, his mouth quirks up, and he has to bite his lip and turn toward the stove to hide his expression. Jack loves it. He loves how happy Bittle seems and how flustered, and Jack kind of wants him to feel like that forever.

He may be getting ahead of himself.

In the meantime, the guys finish eating and disperse. Jack ends up heading out the door at the same time as Bittle, and he drifts a little too close for a moment so he can murmur, “Have a good day, Bittle. Maybe I’ll see you later?”

Bittle blushes all over again and flashes Jack a secret smile. “You too, Jack,” he replies, low. “And I hope so.”

They do see each other later, in Bittle’s room after their classes — not that there’s much to see when they’re pressed together against the door. It’s a brief and hurried thing that comes to an abrupt end when their Hausmates start arriving back home. On Tuesday and Wednesday, they only get to share longing looks, but Thursday and Friday bring opportunities for more. It’s new, and exciting, and Jack feels like he’s running on adrenaline and butterflies.

And then, before he knows it, it’s Saturday morning and a crowd is swelling on the Haus lawn, ready to bid on his teammates. Jack had begged off participating, and to his surprise, Shitty had let him. He watches instead as more and more people arrive – so many that they overflow into the neighboring yards. Shitty observes it all with glee, and at ten-thirty sharp, he hops up on the porch and kicks off the festivities, acting as emcee.

It becomes rapidly apparent that this is one fundraising idea that’s actually going to work. The volleyball team pools their money and take turns outbidding each other until Farmer offers two hundred dollars for Chowder. One of the sororities buys Dex to do maintenance work on their house. Bidding wars drive the prices high for dates with Nursey and Ransom, and Holster turns out to have a determined secret admirer.

Then Bittle nervously takes the makeshift stage.

Jack knows that Bittle isn’t much more comfortable with being a part of the auction than he was with appearing in the calendar, but he’d wanted to help, and — as he’d informed Jack during their brief conversation about the auction, wedged into the scant time between Jack showing up in Bittle’s room and them ending up on Bittle’s bed — he’s got a deal with the volleyball team too. Whatever money is left over from bidding on Chowder will go toward Bittle, who’ll spend the afternoon baking at their house.

Farmer does open the bidding at twenty dollars, but almost immediately after, another voice shouts, “Fifty!”

It’s a male voice. Jack frowns and swivels to see a cluster of LAX bros near the sidewalk, nudging each other and wearing insufferable smirks. On stage, Bittle blanches.

Farmer doesn’t look any happier than Jack does, and before Shitty can even call for the next bid, she yells, “Seventy-five!”

“Didn’t you already win one?” the LAX bro drawls.

One of Farmer’s teammates shoots him a glare and says, pointedly, “ _Eighty-five_.”

“A hundred,” he replies with a shark smile.

Jack can see how pale and worried Bittle looks up there on the porch, his arms clasped defensively over his stomach. Shitty’s face is unhappy too, and it seems like he’s preparing some kind of retort, when Farmer’s friend yells, “One twenty-five!”

The LAX bro’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, he grows more smug. “One-fifty.”

The volleyball team is muttering amongst itself, and Jack can see from their worried expressions that they don’t have the money to bid much higher. He feels sick to his stomach; even if it’s not the worst thing he can imagine — which is pretty heinous — whatever the LAX assholes are planning can’t be good. Jack knows how much they need to raise to fix the roof, and he does some quick mental arithmetic, tacking on several hundred extra dollars just in case, despite the fact that the auction has been a success so far. Then, he raises one arm in the air, glares at the lacrosse team, and barks, “Two thousand dollars.”

It’s satisfying to watch the LAX douche sputter in surprise and wheel around to find him. When he sees that it’s Jack who’s spoken, he glowers. “Not fair,” he shouts toward the porch. “Zimmermann’s _on the team_. You can’t allow someone to bid who’s on your fucking team.”

Shitty has clearly regathered his wits, and he looks triumphant as he stares the LAX bro down. “First of all, m’douche, do you see any rules here? Second, check a fuckin’ calendar. The season’s over, and Jack isn’t a Wellie anymore. He’s a Falconer. Eric Bitty Bittle, you are sold to Monsieur Jacques Laurent Zimmermann for the low, low price of two thousand dollars!”

Bittle looks equal parts relieved and shocked as Jack walks toward the porch. He skitters down the stairs and hisses, “Jack, you are ridiculous! You didn’t have to do that. Good lord, he would have given up well before _two thousand_.”

Jack shrugs. “I wanted to make sure he got the message.”

“Well, you don’t have to _actually_ pay it. I’m sure Shitty won’t —”

“Bittle,” Jack interrupts. “I’ve wanted to pay for this thing from the start. I just signed an NHL contract. I don’t care.”

He wishes that they weren’t surrounded by people, because he gets the sense that Bittle is about two seconds from throwing his arms around him. Jack would do the same thing if he could; Bittle’s face is flushed and his expression is tremulous and Jack thinks he’s on the verge of tears. “Thank you,” Bittle finally whispers.

“It’s my pleasure,” Jack replies, giving Bittle as warm of a smile as he dares.

Bittle nods, and they turn back to porch to watch as Shitty turns the emcee duties over to Holster in order to put himself up for auction. Jack’s not sure how Lardo engineered it so that no one else would bid on him, but in the end, she buys him for two dollars and fifty cents.

*

The hockey team huddles together briefly as the crowd dissipates, before heading off to spend the rest of the day with their various auction winners. Jack receives more than a few pats on the back, and there’s a general murmuring of things like _did you see his fucking face_ and _fucking classic, man_. Just as Bittle had predicted, Shitty says to him, “That was a super dece thing to do, Jack Attack, but there’s no way I expect you to shell out that much money.”

Jack shakes his head. “I bid fair and square, and I’ll pay it.” When Shitty starts to protest again, Jack cuts him off with, “ _Shits_. Just let me do this.”

Shitty looks at him for a long moment, and Jack can actually see the moment when he gives up the fight. “If you insist. I suppose you are the richest dude I know in real life now.”

“You’ve met my father,” Jack points out.

Shitty snorts and twists to include the rest of the team in his next announcement: “Hey, guess what?” he shouts. “By my _highly scientific_ calculations, not only did this beautiful specimen of a man —“ he points at Jack “— vanquish those _motherfucking_ LAX bros one last time, he officially pushed us over our goal. We're raising a new roof, boys!”

For a horrible moment, Jack is afraid that they're going to balk again, but instead, a jubilant shout goes up across the yard and he accepts shoulder slaps and fistbumps and noogies until he's red in the face.

Shitty, when he works his way back to Jack's side, offers all three and says, “So, you’ve got Bitty for the next twelve to fourteen hours. What are your plans? Apple pie until midnight?”

Bittle, who’s standing nearby, turns at the question. “I’m curious to hear the answer to this too.”

Jack knows very well what he _wants_ to do with Bittle until midnight, but luckily, he’s had enough time to think of a plausible-sounding alternative plan. “Not when I have to answer to a trainer and a nutritionist. Nah, we’re going shopping.”

“Oh?” Bittle asks, arching a skeptical eyebrow.

“I want to find one of those kitchen stores, and you can make a list of everything I should buy for my new apartment.”

Bittle’s whole face lights up, and he actually claps his hands together in excitement. “ _Jack_. This is going to be amazing. You took pictures, right? I want to know how much counter space we have to work with, and the _colors_.” He’s off and running, his face rapturous, and all Jack can do is look at him fondly.

Shitty ruffles Bittle’s hair. “You dudes have fun with that. I’m going to go see what services I can offer Lardo. Catch you on the flip side.”

With everyone else dispersing, Jack and Bitty climb the porch stairs, then head into the Haus. Bittle turns to him as soon as the door is shut, wearing a look that Jack can only call adoring. “Jack,” he says, seriously, “thank you. Thank you so much. I can’t even imagine what they had planned.”

Jack’s first instinct is to deflect. “Oh. Well. Shitty would never have let it happen. None of us would have.”

Bittle’s expression only grows fonder as Jack speaks. “Be that as it may, _you’re_ the one who did something about it. I can’t thank you enough. I was so scared.”

It makes Jack want to gather him in, to wrap him up and make him feel safe, but he doesn’t. There are still too many people milling around on the lawn, including a few of their teammates who could burst through the door at literally any second. Instead, he says, “We’ve got your back, Bittle. And what if I was just being selfish, eh?”

“Selfish?” Bittle asks, his brow creasing adorably. “How on earth was rescuing me _selfish_?”

Jack shrugs and rubs the back of his neck. “What if I just wanted to take you on a date?”

Bittle gapes at him. “A _date_?”

“Yeah,” Jack says uncertainly. He has no idea how to interpret that reaction. “I do still want to do the shopping. I was thinking that we could go to that store, you know, the one that you say is what heaven would be like if the prices were lower —”

“Williams Sonoma,” Bittle supplies automatically.

“— yeah, that one. But then I thought maybe we could… grab dinner? It can’t quite be like a real date, of course. Unless you don’t want to.”

Bittle’s face is transitioning slowly from gobsmacked to delighted. “You’d really want to go on a date with me?”

“Of course,” Jack replies. “Why? What did you think was going on here?”

“A lot of making out?” Bittle says, with a shrug that borders on a cringe. The flush painting his cheekbones is sweet.

Jack lets out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, that’s true, I guess. But I —” he pauses, forces himself to get the words out because Bittle has said them and under much more fraught circumstances “— I _like_ you and I want to take you on a date.” He just barely manages to suppress a wince as he delivers this declaration of feelings, which is as eloquent as any twelve-year-old’s.

Bittle doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, his face lights up and goes soft all at once. “I’d like that too. But if that’s what we’re doing, I should, uh… I should really change clothes.” He glances down at his tennis shoes, jeans, and SMH t-shirt.

“It’s not going to be fancy,” Jack says with mild alarm. He’s not dressed any better.

“Oh, sweetheart, I know, but I can’t bear the thought of knowing that I’m going on a date with you —” he sounds breathy when he says it “— and walking out the door wearing this. It’ll only take a minute.”

Jack nods and Bittle scampers off. After a moment’s consideration, Jack follows him up the stairs and slips into his own room to exchange his own SMH shirt for one in plain black. That doesn’t seem right either, so he throws a light flannel shirt on over it and cuffs the sleeves. A quick look in the mirror reveals that he looks fine, even though he feels ridiculous. He hasn’t had a ton of experience with normal dates, and he’s kind of glad he didn’t know in advance that this one would be happening. He would have spent way too long wondering if he was putting on the right thing.

The sound of Bittle’s door opening interrupts Jack's thoughts, so he gives up worrying about it and steps back into the hall. To his great relief, Bittle has changed into a polo shirt but otherwise looks the same. He smiles shyly up at Jack and says, “Hi.”

“Hey,” Jack echoes. “Ready to go?”

“As I’ll ever be.” He holds up his phone. “Do you want me to get an Uber or take the bus? Or the train?”

Jack looks at Bittle, at the barely contained joy in his expression and his eyes only for Jack, and suddenly he doesn’t want to share Bittle at all — not with some Uber driver or whatever strangers there might be on public transportation. He frowns thoughtfully. “You know what? Before Johnson graduated, he left us the name of a guy who he said would let us borrow his car if we have an emergency. We could call him.”

“This is hardly an emergency.”

“Let me just give him a try.”

*

Which is how they find themselves headed for Dedham in a borrowed sedan, Jack behind the wheel with Bittle beside him in the passenger seat, chattering away about cookware and blenders and mixers. He’s got the store’s website pulled up on his phone, and he’s scrolling eagerly through their inventory. Jack listens with half an ear, interjecting only to protest that he’s not sure he _needs_ a cappuccino machine when he generally takes his coffee black. Bittle turns up his nose at the suggestion. “Are you going to serve your guests _plain black coffee_?”

Jack shrugs. “I can keep some of those little sweetener packets around,” he offers, because he knows it’ll drive Bittle up the wall.

He’s right. “Jack, you’re creating a home in that big, beautiful apartment, not running a Denny’s. You have an NHL contract now. Get a decent coffee maker, please.”

“So you can make sugar bombs for yourself when you come visit, eh?” Jack teases, and it brings Bittle up short.

Bittle is quiet for a moment before he says, “You want me to come visit?”

Jack shoots him a confused look out of the corner of his eye. “I’m taking you on a _date_.”

“I know, but…” Bittle takes a deep breath. He’s still looking down at his phone, but he isn’t scrolling anymore. “I wasn’t sure if this might just be an end-of-the-year… _thing_.”

“A _thing_?”

Bittle sighs. “I don’t know! Just… I thought maybe we’d get these few weeks, but that you’d want to — start fresh, when you get to Providence.”

Jack glances over again, at Bittle’s hands curled around his phone. He reaches out, gently prises one away, and wraps his own around it. “No, that’s not what I want.”

“Oh,” Bittle says. He stares at the way their fingers are twined together, tentatively tightening his own grip. Jack’s heart gives a flutter in response.

They’re quiet for a time, and Jack uses it to enjoy the feeling of Bittle’s hand in his. It’s smaller than Jack’s — most people’s are; Jack has hands like dinner plates — but solid. Strong. And Jack, who’s been watching Bittle in the kitchen for a long time now, knows how dexterous. Jack’s so absorbed in appreciating it all that it startles him when Bittle speaks again: “You know, when you were talking about Samwell, I thought you were talking about… just, guys.”

Jack feels his brow furrow. “What?”

“Last weekend,” Bittle explains, “when we were collecting cans. You said you didn’t realize how much you liked Samwell until it was almost too late. I thought you just meant guys. In general.”

“Ah,” Jack says. He squeezes Bittle’s hand, his heart rate ratcheting up again. “No, I was talking about you.”

“I think I’m starting to get that now.”

“Good.”

Bittle lets out a shaky breath. Jack thinks he might be might be revving up for more personal revelations, but instead, he says, “So yes, I would like it if there were something other than plain black coffee to drink when I come to visit.”

Jack chuckles. “You let me know when you see a model you like, then.”

They return back to easier conversation, with Bittle lapsing again into a detailed catalog of what Jack will need for his new kitchen, except this time his phone is forgotten and he has Jack’s hand in his instead. Jack likes it infinitely better.

Jack does let go when they get close to Legacy Place and he has to park the car. He releases his hold reluctantly, knowing that he won’t be able to touch Bittle — not the way he wants anyway — for hours, while they’re out in public at the store and later, at dinner. It’s hard to stay disappointed for long, though, not when Bittle’s enthusiasm for Williams Sonoma takes over.

It ends up being fun, more fun than Jack would have ever expected to have shopping for kitchenware, and informative too. He actually pulls out his phone and starts a list of things that he wants to remember to buy, making careful note of the brands and items that Bittle likes best. Maybe he’s giving too much weight to this thing that’s so new and uncertain, and maybe Jack will end up having to rid himself of a whole kitchen’s worth of fancy cookware that reminds him too much of Bittle — but he can’t imagine it. This feels good. It feels right. Really right.

He glances up from his thoughts to see Bittle brandishing a piece of equipment and frowns. “What is that?”

Bittle blinks at him. “It’s a spiralizer, obviously.”

That doesn’t help Jack much, but he does make it into a game, egging Bittle on over and over again by pointing at some implement and asking, “And what’s that?”

It devolves until Jack is asking about things like spoons and towels, and Bittle is giggling and swatting him and hissing, “You ridiculous person! Why am I even here with you?”

“Because I paid you to be,” Jack points out, and Bittle peals with fresh laughter.

“This _is_ all a little Julia Roberts in _Pretty Woman_ ,” he says. “Except she was shopping by herself.”

Jack nods. “That’s a movie?”

Bittle groans, rolling his eyes so hard that his head tilts back. “Is this like when you asked me what measuring cups are?”

“No,” Jack says. “Well, kind of. I know what measuring cups are, and I do know that’s a movie. I’ve never seen it, though.”

“I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me,” Bittle replies, and Jack thinks that there’s a new fondness in his tone, underlying the put-upon frustration. “Come on, let’s look at mixers.”

By the time they’re leaving the store, Jack has an extensive list of necessities stored in his phone and a bag in his hand with salt and pepper shakers shaped like rabbits and the tea towel set that he’d asked about to make Bittle laugh. Bittle had assured him that the towels would actually look great in his kitchen and complimented his taste, which Jack had accepted even though whatever he pointed at was sheer dumb luck. He’ll like having them around because remembering the sound of Bittle’s laughter warms his chest.

As Jack had promised, dinner isn’t fancy. It’s just a run-of-the-mill Italian place with date-appropriate food (nary a chicken tender in sight), a restaurant that’s passably non-romantic despite having candles on the tables. They’re seated at a booth, and Jack is pleased by how deep and shadowed it is — it means that even though he can’t hold Bittle’s hand across the table, he can nudge his feet against Bittle’s under it. The meal passes quickly, drawn along by easy conversation sprinkled heavily with flirtatious looks and comments. It’s comfortable and fun and Jack wants to linger, but then Bittle glances across at him, bashful and pink, and suggests, “Maybe we should try and beat the others back to the Haus?”

Yeah, lingering is a terrible idea.

*

After they drive back to Samwell and return the car, they find the Haus empty as expected, all of the others still out with their auction winners. Jack guides Bittle up the stairs, one hand on the small of his back, and when they reach their doors, they hover in the hallway between them. Jack reaches out to tease Bittle’s fingers with his own, and Bittle offers him a shy smile. “Thank you again, Jack,” he says. “For outbidding the LAX bros, and for a lovely date.”

“Can I kiss you goodnight?” Jack blurts, feeling his face heat. He feels wrong-footed, somehow, even though a few days ago they would have fallen on each other if they’d had the whole Haus to themselves.

However awkward Jack may be, Bittle’s fond gaze doesn’t waver. “I believe a goodnight kiss is customary if the first date goes well.”

“And you think this one went well enough?”

Bittle’s mouth tilts more towards a smirk. “Try it and see.”

Jack needs no further invitation. He draws close to Bittle, taking hold of his hip with one hand and cupping his face with the other. They exchange a smile at close range, then bridge the gap between them to come together in a kiss that _melts_. It’s _better_ than just pouncing on each other, Jack thinks, because it means something now. Jack knows that it did before, to him, but now Bittle knows it too. And Jack can feel the certainly between them, all the way down to the soles of his feet, especially when Bittle goes up on tiptoes and wraps his arms around Jack’s neck.

It’s their first time doing this without an immediate deadline or the imminent threat of discovery. It’s thorough and deliberate, as Jack works Bittle’s mouth open, explores it, invites Bittle to do the same. Bittle does, but then he’s dropping unexpectedly away, down onto his heels. Jack looks into his flushed face with a breathless grin, and Bittle returns it, going pinker. “So,” Bittle says quietly, dropping his eyes, then flicking them back up, “my place or yours?”

“What?” Jack replies, eloquently.

Bittle’s chewing his lip now, and as appealing as that is, Jack wants to tug it out from between his teeth and kiss away his doubts. Instead, he waits for Bittle to speak. “Well, the Haus is empty,” Bittle explains, “and there are much more comfortable places to — to do this than standing in the hall. Unless you’re tricking me into a calf workout.”

Jack snorts. “Yes, that was the plan all along. My weeks of hard work have finally paid off.”

Bittle rolls his eyes. “ _Anyway_ , your place —” he looks pointedly past Jack to his doorway “— or mine?” He nods toward his own room. His face is on fire.

In answer, Jack starts walking Bittle backwards, because it’s less likely that someone will barge in on them there, and because he likes being in Bittle’s room. It smells good, and the strings of lights around his bed create a nice atmosphere, and the way his bed is tucked into the wall makes Jack feel cozy and private. He turns briefly from Bittle to lock the door behind them.

“So —” Bittle starts again when Jack faces him, but Jack doesn’t let him get very far. He scoops Bittle right up off the floor, turning his words into a startled squeak, and deposits him on the bed, then climbs in after him. It leaves him hovering over Bittle’s body, looking down into Bittle’s face, which is half scandalized and half laughing. “Jack!”

“Your place,” Jack says, and he leans in to kiss Bittle again.

It’s deep right away, but not hurried, and Bittle responds enthusiastically, threading a hand into Jack’s hair and tilting up into the pressure of his lips. He arches up off the mattress a little too, but he doesn’t quite bring them into contact, and Jack isn’t sure if that’s intentional, if he’s keeping the space between them on purpose. Just in case, he keeps his weight on his knees and elbows, prepares to shift over to one side of the mattress instead. He’s in the middle of the maneuver when Bittle makes a small, breathy noise — something that would be a moan if he’d give it more voice — and fists his hands in Jack’s t-shirt, yanking the material and upsetting Jack's balance. He goes down awkwardly, half on top of Bittle, who lets out a surprised _oof_.

“Sorry,” Jack murmurs against his mouth, already scooting away, but Bittle stops him with one hand on his hip. Jack can feel him shaking.

They pause there, in suspended animation, and Bittle says, “Jack, I —” He cuts himself off abruptly, biting his lip.

“Bits, it’s okay.” At least, Jack’s fairly sure that whatever’s on Bittle’s mind, it’s going to be okay. If he’s being honest, Jack is aching to get Bittle off, and he hopes that Bittle will let him, but if he doesn’t want to? That’s okay. “Whatever you want,” Jack adds. “Or don’t.”

Bittle nods. Jack feels it, and opens his eyes to see that Bittle still has his shut. “I want to,” he rushes out. “I just — I’ve never. So I’m nervous.”

Jack kisses his forehead, his cheek, and briefly, his mouth. “That’s fine. We don’t have to do anything right now.”

It’s supposed to be reassuring, but it just makes Bittle’s face screw up. His indignation brings his eyes open. “I don’t want to not do _anything_.”

With a chuckle and a press of his lips to Bittle’s temple, Jack says, “I just want to kiss you. Let’s start there and see what happens, eh?”

He can feel some of the tension melt out of Bittle’s frame. “That sounds good. Very good,” Bittle breathes.

Jack kisses him, just once, pulling back as Bittle chases his mouth. “Tell me to stop if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

“I will.”

They share a lingering look, and just as Jack’s thinking that he doesn’t remember the last time he was this happy and wondering if he should maybe say it out loud, Bittle leans up and captures his lips. Jack sinks down against him.

By some unspoken agreement, they keep things slow to start, easing into lush, deep kisses that they barely barely break off to breathe, tongues thick in each other’s mouths. Jack lets one of his hands wander — carefully, splaying it against Bittle’s solid, compact chest and his narrow waist, making sure that Bittle doesn’t tense up before tightening his grip. It’s nowhere he hasn’t touched Bittle before, but when he does it with Bittle’s teeth scraping experimentally over his lip, it’s more than enough to bring him from half mast to full.

Jack ignores it. He keeps his hips back, arched away from Bittle so that his ass is pressed into Bittle’s wall. The corner of the windowsill is actually jabbing into his lower back in a way that’s more than a little uncomfortable, but he can ignore that too, for now. He doesn’t know if Bittle is hard, and he doesn’t do anything to find out. He can be as patient as Bittle needs him to be.

Bittle, for his part, meets Jack kiss for kiss and touch for touch. He seems to be mirroring Jack’s attentions, until he sweeps one hand down Jack’s back and it bumps up against the windowsill. “Oh, honey!” he exclaims in a gasp, as Jack redirects his lips immediately to Bittle’s throat. “Is this poking you?”

“I don’t mind,” Jack says. He flicks his tongue out against the soft skin under Bittle’s jawbone.

“Oh, don't be silly,” Bittle insists, tugging at the side of Jack’s t-shirt. “Come over here.”

Jack abandons his task and nuzzles into the juncture of Bittle’s neck and chest, breathing hard. “Bittle, I — I’m…”

Bittle draws in a deep breath, lets it out. “I know.” When Jack stays still, he adds, “That can’t feel good on your back. Please get comfortable, honey.”

So Jack lets Bittle ask without asking. He shifts carefully away from the wall, letting Bittle guide him with gentle tugs on his shirt, his shoulder, until they’re curled into each other and Jack is half-straddling him. His erection is pressed into Bittle’s hip, and he can clearly feel Bittle’s — present and accounted for — against his abdomen. Somehow, in the course of those ministrations, Bittle’s hand ends up curled against his ass, which Jack doesn’t really register until Bittle squeezes. “Oops,” he whispers, and then he’s giggling.

Jack nips playfully at the side of Bittle’s neck, just lightly, not enough to leave a mark. “Not sure I believe that was an accident.”

“Maybe not,” Bittle says, the words breaking off into a contented hum as Jack switches back to lips and tongue against his throat. He tightens his fingers against Jack’s ass again, and on instinct, Jack follows the motion, gently rolling his hips into Bittle’s body. A noise works its way out from Jack’s throat, and Bittle is trembling again.

It's almost enough to give Jack pause, but then Bittle sighs out his name in a way that sounds anything but distressed, so Jack rearranges them, slotting their bodies together before he rocks into Bittle again. Bittle whimpers and Jack slides his hand down to angle Bittle's thigh up, encouraging Bittle to move with him.

Bittle groans this time, a gravelly _oh lord_ , and Jack can’t help but agree with the sentiment. He sets up an easy rhythm, forcing himself to keep it measured, and covers Bittle’s lips with his own. Bittle makes an aborted noise that sounds almost like a protest, but he kisses back eagerly.

As much as Jack tries to keep things steady, it doesn’t take long at all for their breaths to grow harsh, for Bittle to grapple at his back, for their mouths to grow sloppy and slick. Bittle’s mouth get distracted, and Jack is afraid he might shake apart entirely. Maybe, after all, that’s the goal. Bittle finally stops trying to kiss entirely, cradling Jack’s head and pressing the sides of their faces together. “Jack,” he gasps.

“Yeah?”

“I’m — I’m not sure… if this is how I want it to happen.”

As soon as the words register, Jack stills, panting. He tries to move away, but Bittle wraps an arm around his waist and prevents it. “Bitty —”

“No, Jack, I don’t mean that. Shit. I mean —” He shifts around, and Jack does too, craning back so he can open his eyes and look into Bittle’s sweet, nervous, scarlet face. “If this is going to be, you know… _myfirsttime_ ,” he rushes out, “then I think I want it to be… more.”

“Okay,” Jack says. “What do you want?” He doesn’t think there’s anything Bittle could ask for that he wouldn’t be willing to do.

Bittle squirms. “I’m not — I’m not sure. But more than just —” he gestures vaguely at their bodies, still pressed together from chest down “— in our pants.”

It strikes Jack that Bittle is trusting him with a lot, with knowing what to do and how to make his first sexual experience a good one. The feeling settles in his stomach, a heavy pool of anxiety and dread right in the pit of it, but dammit, Jack is going to do this for him. As long as Bittle _really_ wants to. Shitty’s lectures about consent have never loomed larger. “Bits, are you sure you want to do this?”

“Jack, yes,” Bittle says. His fingers tighten in Jack’s hair. “You’re so sweet to keep asking, but trust me. You remember that professional mixer with the seven-quart bowl we saw at the store?”

“Yeah,” Jack replies. He’s definitely buying it for his apartment, and as a surprise for Bittle.

Bittle nods. “Well, I want _this_ more than I want _that_ —”

“Wow,” Jack interjects.

“— so the answer is _yes_ , I absolutely want to. Just as long as this —” his firm tone begins to falter “— you and me, that is — as long as this is going to be something…”

He’s looking up at Jack, his gaze searching, and Jack is so eager to reassure that he can barely find the right words to express himself. “Bits, this. Believe me, this is… so much more than something.”

Jack thinks it’s inelegant, bit Bittle just tugs him down to bring their foreheads together. “Good,” he whispers, and Jack has to kiss him again.

It starts out lingering, but it doesn’t stay that way. Bittle sighs into it, and Jack can’t resist the opportunity to tease his tongue past Bittle’s parted lips. Bittle invites him in, a slick slide, and then it escalates. Quickly.

First, it gets deep, a series of kisses that are long and crushing, while Bittle encourages Jack to press him down into the mattress with the weight of his body. He urges Jack to shift with insistent hands and soft noises, until Jack is fully on top of him, with one of Bittle’s thighs bracketing either side of his hips. Jack leans down into it, and Bittle gasps.

That’s when it starts getting more urgent.

Bittle’s feet are planted firm on the bed, and he uses that leverage to meet Jack, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence and waning precision. His fingers scrabble for purchase against Jack’s back, find only handfuls of cotton dampening with sweat, his balling fists drawing the fabric up Jack’s back and exposing skin. “Jack,” he says, a reminder, “ _more_.”

So Jack breaks their kiss — which is graceless now, wet and rubber-lipped and _good_ — to rear back and strip his flannel and his t-shirt right off. He doesn’t miss the way Bittle’s gaze trails down his torso, and his eyes are dark and wide above his flushed cheeks, his bitten lips. Jack fans his hands over Bittle’s waist and pushes up, dragging the hemline of his top up over his belly. “You too?” he asks.

Bittle nods and props himself up onto his elbows. Working together, they get his polo off, and it’s awkward and Bittle’s head gets stuck, but when he finally pops free, he’s laughing. Jack tosses the shirt aside, and Bittle drags him down until they’re pressed skin-to-skin.

It hits a reset button of sorts: the press of their mouths grows luxuriant again, and Jack feels Bittle trace tentative paths up his spine, across his flexing shoulders, then back down. Jack changes their positions, moving so that he’s straddling Bittle instead. It leaves them not lined up quite right to rock together anymore, but that’s okay. That’s not how Bittle had wanted to come anyway. Jack brushes a hand down Bittle’s chest — running the pad of his thumb over a peaked nipple as he goes, eliciting a whimper — until he can trace his fingers along the waistband of Bittle’s jeans.

"Jack," Bittle whispers. "Please.”

So Jack sits up, getting his weight back on his knees so he has use of both hands. He feels the muscles in Bittle’s belly contract as he turns his attention to undoing Bittle’s button, then drawing down his fly. He can feel Bittle hard and straining underneath, and the backs of his fingers brush against Bittle’s erection, sheathed in soft cotton, as he goes. Bittle’s breathing is fast and erratic, but he drops his hands to help shimmy his pants down, lifting his hips.

Rather than look, because he thinks Bittle will be more comfortable if he doesn’t, Jack leans in to capture Bittle’s mouth again as he takes him carefully in hand. The kiss breaks almost immediately as Bittle draws a sharp breath, and it ends in something like a whine. Jack explores Bittle with a gentle touch; he feels good, firm and hot and — when Jack brushes his thumb over the head — starting to slick.

“Oh, _lord_ ,” Bittle gasps. His head angled back, so Jack noses under his jaw and presses his lips there, briefly.

Jack props himself up so he can see Bittle’s face, working his hand slow and steady as waves on a shore. He’s not looking back, and Jack kisses his slack mouth, just once. “Does this feel good?”

To his surprise, Bittle huffs something almost like a laugh. He opens his eyes then, regarding Jack with an overwhelmed kind of amusement. “That’s — _ah_ — that’s understating it a little. It’s so much better than —” he cuts himself off abruptly.

“Doing it yourself?” Jack suggests with a grin.

“Pfft, Mr. Zimmerman. I, _uh_ … I am a _gentleman._ ”

Jack’s about to retort when he feels Bittle’s fingers edge under his own waistband, the tips just ghosting over the head of his own cock, and he lets out a grunt instead. “Bittle?”

“Can I — can I touch you too?” he asks shyly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Jack says, and he has to remove his hand from Bittle’s erection to help get his own pants open. He finally gets a glimpse of them as they wrestle his pants down to mid-thigh, and it’s both of them _together_ , straining for each other, his fingers going back to Bittle and Bittle’s tentatively reaching for him.

It’s uncoordinated for a moment, while they figure out where to position themselves and how to move, then it falls into a delicious rhythm, with their hands not intertwined but touching and their hips moving in time. Their cocks brush thrillingly as they each thrust into each other’s grasp, and Bittle is shaking, shaking, shaking underneath Jack’s body. With one hand very much occupied and the other attached to the arm that’s propping up some of his weight, Jack doesn’t have any available to soothe; barring that, he captures Bittle’s mouth in a brief, sloppy kiss. When it’s over, he drops his head so he can speak right into Bittle’s ear: “You feel so, so good.”

Bittle gasps out a littie “ _oh_ ” in response. Jack can feel how close he is, every muscle coiling, his movements jerking, his cock _hard_ and twitching. He’s holding back, though, maybe from nerves, and that’s just not what Jack wants at all.

“Let go,” he murmurs. “Come on, Bits.”

Bittle’s face screws up and he hangs on for a scant few seconds longer, then his jaw drops open and an expression of wonder and pleasure sweeps across his features, all while his hips stutter into Jack’s fist. His own hand is still wrapped loosely around Jack’s cock, unmoving, but Jack is caught up enough watching Bittle, working him through it, that he’s not concerned about his own release just yet. This is special for Bittle, he knows it is, even if a handjob isn’t the most romantic thing in the world, and he’s going to let Bittle take all the time he needs.

Jack gentles his touch and slows the motion of his hand as Bittle rides out his orgasm, then stills altogether when it seems like Bittle is coming back to himself. Indeed, his eyes blink open a few seconds later, and he hazily meets Jack’s gaze. “Jack,” he breathes.

“Hi,” Jack says, and he grins, because he can’t help it.

Bittle’s returning smile is a little dopey. “Hi.” His free hand runs up into Jack’s hair, and he tugs Jack in for a kiss, a loose, lazy press of lips that they both ruin by giggling into it.

It’s around then that Bittle suddenly grasps Jack more firmly. “Oh, Jack,” Bittle says. “You still have to…”

“If you want…” Jack replies, strained, quieting his hips after they flex once, instinctively, into Bittle’s renewed touch.

“Oh, honey, I want,” Bittle assures him, petting his free hand over Jack’s shoulders, and Jack thinks that his post-orgasm loopiness is adorable.

Jack scoots to his side, repositioning slightly so that he’s more propped up next to Bittle than on top of him. Bittle returns to stroking over his cock, startling a bit when Jack’s hand covers his own, and then they work together. It doesn’t take long; Jack spills over with a strangled grunt, and when he manages to recover himself enough to look at Bittle, he finds Bittle gazing at him with something like awe. Which means that Jack just has to kiss him again.

It's a near-magic moment — until a gradual awareness starts creeping over Jack. His pants are still caught around his thighs, and they’re both sticky and getting stickier as the mess between them smears. They can’t even kiss each other properly, each keeping one hand away from the other, and Jack doesn’t even want to surreptitiously wipe his on the bedclothes because the bed’s still made and he doesn’t want to ruin Bittle’s comforter. Maybe they already did.

Breaking gently away, Jack asks, “Bits, are you okay? Was this — okay?” He directs the question at Bittle’s clavicle, suddenly finding it hard to look him in the eye. Partially-clothed handjobs? What was he thinking? He should have gone down on Bittle or, at the very least, not just charged ahead with his pants half-down.

“So stinking okay,” Bittle replies, his voice dreamy, running the fingers of his clean hand through Jack’s hair. They slow as Jack stays quiet, and when Bittle speaks up again, his voice is hesitant. “Was it — was it okay for you?”

“Of course,” Jack says immediately. “But we didn’t even…” He gestures vaguely at himself as he lets his voice trail away. _Get my pants all the way off. Get under the covers. Light a single candle. We didn’t even turn on music. You love music; you live your_ life _by music_.

“Jack.” Bitty’s voice is firm. He angles Jack’s face up, and Jack lets him. “This was — it was you and me. It’s more than I would have ever dreamed of. It was, um —” his face, which had been regaining its normal color, flushes anew “— really, really good.”

His eyes are huge and the earnestness is practically radiating off of him, and Jack feels settled. He’s still not great with words, but he echoes, “It _was_ really good.”

“So quit worrying, sweetheart,” Bittle orders, stern but gentle. “Or channel that energy into something productive, like finding something to clean us up with.”

“Right,” Jack says. He manages to peel himself up and locate his own t-shirt — he can just wear his flannel for his across-the-hall walk of shame. Not that he’s ashamed. He’s actually not sure if he’s ever been more proud of himself in his life, outside of hockey. Maybe inside of it too; who knows? Because as he tucks himself into the bed beside Bittle, he knows that by getting here, he’s managed to do something great.

They trade kisses for an indistinguishable amount of time, some long, some staccato, all soft. They’re kisses that aren’t going anywhere, kisses that aren’t leading to more, because-we’re-here-and-we-can kisses, interspersed with whispers.

“I’m so glad it was with you,” Bittle confesses.

“I can’t wait to show you my apartment,” Jack says, later.

“I hope we don’t have to go all summer without seeing each other.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t figure all of this out sooner.”

Finally, just before they separate, sure their Hausmates will start trickling back in soon, Bittle murmurs, “I promise you I’m gonna get you all the way out of those pants next time, mister.”

Surprised, Jack chuckles. It eases the ache of having to end the moment, and the evening. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“You can hold me however you want, sweetpea,” Bittle flirts.

Jack manages not to say _how about for a long, long time?_ Instead he kisses Bittle one last time and grins. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to the tumblr post for Chapter 5 [here](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/post/176281956012/so-much-more-than-something-67-zimbits-fic)! Epilogue coming next week :)


	7. Epilogue: The Oven

Jack has long expected that the final weeks of his college career will be bittersweet, and they are. When he’d enrolled, Samwell had only been a stepping stone in his mind, something to put him back on the path he was supposed to be on, the one from which he’d managed to slip. He’d had no idea how much both the place and the team would come to mean to him. And now, in just a few short months, he’ll be doing what he’d dreamed of since he was old enough to hold a hockey stick — but he also has to say goodbye to the experiences and the friends who’ve made him into someone who’s ready to do just that.

He never anticipated that those weeks would also be ecstatic.

There’s no other word for it, and there would have been no way to prepare for it, no way to see it coming, because Jack couldn't have imagined that he’d close out his senior year by falling head over heels in love with one of his best friends. But that’s what he’s doing, and he thinks it to himself sometimes, even if he hasn’t said as much to Bits himself. He will. Someday. He just wants to wait until their relationship is more than a month old, at least.

Oh, but Jack is sure feels it — every time they get another _one last coffee_ at Annie’s, every time they flirt in the library under the pretense of studying, every time he kisses Bittle behind whatever door he can shut between them and the outside world. It’s heady and exciting, and the best part is that even as they try to cram in every minute they can together during the waning days of the school year, they both know _it’s not going to end_. As soon as Jack has his offseason schedule figured out, he’s going to see if there’s any way to sneak in a trip to Georgia, and Bittle’s going to come back a week early in the fall — to the Haus as far as his parents are concerned, but really to Providence, to Jack’s apartment, to his arms and his bed.

The school year is going to end. Jack’s time at Samwell is going to end. He and Bittle are not.

And, because of Jack’s generous contribution at the auction, neither is the Haus. They end up with more than enough money to cover the roof, and Jack finds himself suddenly inspired about what to do with the excess. He approaches the rest of the guys with his idea — luckily, before they spend it all on something like booze or sriracha — and has no problems securing their enthusiastic support.

Which is why he’s not trying to steal a few more precious seconds with Bittle at the moment, as much as he’d like to be. Instead, he’s got the frogs running interference while he makes sure that everything is ready back at the Haus, and it finally is. The whole team is there, along with extra friends and assorted romantic partners, and while they’re all excited about what’s going to happen, Jack’s pretty sure that none of them can match his nerves. After all, this is his first official gift as Bittle’s… not official anything, because they haven't talked about that yet.

Shitty, apparently picking up on his mood, sidles up next to Jack as he wipes a near-invisible smudge off the handle of the oven. “Dude. Chill. Bits is gonna love it. What are you stressing about?”

Jack gives a shrug that’s more of a twitch. “I don’t know. What if I picked the wrong one?”

Shitty side-eyes him. “We all decided, and we all decided on this one. And either way, this one’s gotta be better than that piece of shit that wouldn’t work long enough to heat up a frozen pizza.”

“Right,” Jack says. He takes a deep breath. “You’re right.”

“Damn right I am.” Shitty punches his shoulder. “And even if you don’t believe me, you’ll see for yourself in about… two minutes.”

Jack checks the time and mutters a low curse. “Okay, well I’m going to go stand by the door,” he announces, louder, picking up his camera from where it had been dangling around his neck.

“Go capture the moment, my good man.”

There’s just enough time for Jack to maneuver through the assembled crowd and get into position. Shitty, Ransom, Holster, and Lardo shush the group as he gets lined up, and right on cue, the front door swings open. There’s an air of breathless anticipation in the room, broken only when Nursey and Chowder forcibly lead Bittle around the corner and everyone erupts into raucous shouts of “ _Surprise_!”

Jack snaps while it happens, capturing Bitty looking confused, then shocked, and then — when he catches sight of the new oven — incredulous. “Y’all,” he says hesitantly, his eyes darting around the room but landing on Jack. “What _is_ this?”

Multiple voices burst out in explanation, but Jack just lowers the camera, meeting Bittle’s gaze and smiling. “Happy birthday,” he says simply.

“But —” Bittle starts, his eyes filling “—but my birthday was _weeks_ ago.”

“Right,” Shitty interjects, pulling Bittle’s attention his way, “and it totally fell by the fucking wayside with the whole roof fiasco, and finals, and end-of-the-year shit, which is _not_ cool, so clearly we needed to rectify the situation. And we had some extra dough from all of our fundraising efforts — thanks in no small part to _this_ beaut,” he adds, clapping Jack’s shoulder, and then he finishes, grandly, “so, happy fucking birthday, Eric Bittle.”

Bittle is crying in earnest now, with one arm wrapped around his middle and one hand covering his mouth, like he’s trying to hide it. All Jack wants to do is hug him — so, whether it’s suspicious or not, he goes for it.

He’s standing close enough that he can reach out and clap Bittle’s shoulder. When he does, Bittle folds naturally toward his chest and Jack lets him, swinging his camera out of the way and holding Bittle lightly while Bittle dampens his t-shirt. “Don’t cry, Bittle,” he says, low and gruff. “We want you to be happy.”

“Oh, Jack,” he replies, muffled. “I’m _so_ happy.”

He doesn’t seem inclined to move, either, so Jack casts a look around to see if anyone is acting like it’s strange. It must not be, because he just gets grins and subtle thumbs-up. Jack relaxes, gives a benevolent smile in return, and lets Bitty compose himself in the circle of his arms. For just a moment, Jack imagines that this is normal, that it’s something that they _do_ — and maybe it will be, someday. Maybe they’ll hang out casually with their friends, with his arm around Bittle, or Bittle tucked under his chin like Jack sometimes does with Lardo, or Bittle in his lap. Someday.

As it is, Bittle draws away sooner than Jack would like, but Jack lets him go. He shoots Jack a private, watery smile, then turns to the oven, clasping his hands together. “Goodness gracious, y’all! Would you look at this? It's absolutely _gorgeous_.” He rushes over to examine it, and Jack stays where he is, watching fondly.

Shitty sidles up next to him. “This was a good idea, Jack-o,” he says.

“We all agreed on it,” Jack demurs.

“Yeah, but you thought of it.”

Jack just shrugs. Shitty shoves him a little, then calls across the kitchen, “Bits, I know I’m graduating in a fucking week or whatever, but there’d better be at least one pie for me before then!” He gives Jack a wink and wanders away.

Even though it’s a fairly low-key affair, Jack works his way to the edge of the group and takes a seat at the table. He’s perfectly content to watch the festivities from there — especially the joy that’s radiating off of Bittle. He flits from group to group, chatting and hugging, until he finally makes his way back to where Jack is sitting. He’s flushed and beaming when he drops down into the next chair, and Jack can’t help smiling back.

“This was your doing,” Bittle announces.

Jack looks down at this camera, absently fiddling with one of the controls. “All the guys wanted to put the extra money towards it. Lards too.”

“Don’t you play modest, Mr. Zimmermann. It was your idea. They all said so.”

Because _of course_ they did. Jack sighs. “Well, that old one barely worked. And it’s a gift for everyone, kind of, because you’ll make stuff for the whole team.”

Bittle’s watching him with a fond but critical eye. “Well, we can talk about it more later,” he finally says. “Right now, I have to bake something!”

*

 _Later_ ends up being several hours later, after Jack’s abandoned the makeshift party altogether to go to his room and — in theory anyway — pack or study. He tries both but doesn’t do much of either, and by the time Bittle finds him, Jack is engrossed in sorting through his photography assignments on his laptop, trying to narrow down the ones he wants to frame for his apartment walls. When Jack hears the gentle knock on his door, he already knows who’ll be on the other side, and he pushes his chair away from his desk with a ready grin. “Come in,” he calls.

Bittle slips through, holding a plate stacked with cookies in one hand. Everything about him is warm and sweet: his expression, his smile, the tempting aroma that enters with him. “Fresh chocolate chip!” he announces, setting them on Jack's desk. “I managed to save a couple at my own _great_ peril, so I don’t want to hear anything about health benefits or lack thereof. I risked my _life_.”

“I would never,” Jack deadpans, and Bittle titters as he drops down onto Jack’s lap.

“Sure you wouldn’t,” he chides, as Jack wraps both arms around him and quiets him with a kiss. Bittle responds eagerly, and he tastes like chocolate and sugar.

“Is your party still going?” Jack murmurs when they break apart.

Bittle shrugs. “Not really. Some folks went over to the volleyball house; they're having a study break party tonight. Most everyone else went to the library to actually study or to the dining hall. I told 'em all I had to clean up my baking mess. There's no one here but us chickens.” He twists around to grab a cookie from the plate, but he goes still when he sees Jack's laptop screen. “What's that?”

It's the portrait – _the_ portrait of Bittle, the one that's made Jack's chest warm since he took it. The one that he could now print out and, if not hang on his wall, frame and display somewhere subtle. Like his bedroom. “It's you,” Jack says simply.

“Jack,” Bittle replies, and then he's quiet for a moment. Finally, he continues, “I don't look half bad there, do I?”

“You're beautiful.”

Bittle huffs out a breath, his face still turned toward the screen. “In this picture, maybe.”

“All the time,” Jack corrects him. “I'm putting that one in my apartment.”

“You can't do that,” Bittle says, finally swinging back to look at Jack, furrowing his brow. “Won't that...”

Jack smiles fondly at his concern. “I'll have pictures of all my friends. This will just be the most beautiful one.”

“This boy,” Bittle whispers. He holds Jack's eye for a moment, then leans in to give him a kiss, firm and tender.

When he pulls away to break off a chunk of cookie, Jack asks, “Are you sure you don't want to go to the volleyball party? I don’t want you to feel like you have to be up here with me if you’d rather be there.”

An incredulous expression crosses Bittle’s face. “Honey, are you joking? There is no place I’d rather be than right here.” He wiggles a little into Jack’s lap — which is distracting — and cracks off another piece of cookie, but this time, he offers it to Jack.

“Good,” Jack says, and he lets Bittle feed him the bite. He gives an appreciative hum as he chews, because like everything else Bittle makes, the cookie is divine, and what’s more, it’s at the perfect stage of ovenwarm and melty.

Bittle eats more of it himself, and they kiss again, a sugary chocolate-chip cookie kiss, and Jack wonders if Bittle's doing this all on purpose.

They pull apart and split the last bit of cookie. Bittle’s looking down now, his lashes cast toward his cheek. “Jack,” he says quietly, “I can’t thank you enough for the oven. It’s amazing. It’s… way, way too much. But it’s amazing.”

Jack squeezes him and nuzzles into his neck. “I told you, it’s not for you. It’s for everyone.”

Bitty snorts and pulls back far enough to look Jack in the eye. “Is it really?”

“No,” Jack says honestly. “They’ll benefit from it, sure, but it’s for you. Because I want you to be my boyfriend,” he adds, just… blurting it out, with all the grace of a goalie in full gear trying to navigate a china shop. “And I want you to be happy, and I know you won’t be happy unless you have access to a working oven.”

For a moment, Bittle just stares at him. “Jack…”

“Will you?”

“Will I… what?”

“Be my boyfriend?” Jack asks, forcing the words out even though he suddenly feels too hot and too awkward. Is he going about this all wrong? Is Bittle going to laugh at him? Is he going to say _no_?

Bittle doesn’t do either of those things. Instead, he beams at Jack and hugs him, pressing his face to the side of Jack’s. “Sweetheart, of course! My goodness, so formal,” he teases, but he doesn’t say it in a way that makes Jack feel laughed-at; instead, he’s warmed from the inside out.

“S’wawesome,” he mutters into Bittle’s neck. “I just — wanted to be sure. Before I have to leave.”

“You silly boy,” Bittle replies. He cards his fingers through Jack’s hair, and Jack didn’t know that such a simple gesture could make him feel so happy. He nudges Bittle away because he needs to see Bittle’s face, to smile at it and to kiss it. The press of their mouths is soft and lingering at first, and then it deepens and heightens, until they’re locked together in an eager embrace. Jack’s pulse pounds, his breath rasps, and his temperature soars. Bittle squirms against him, and Jack wishes that he could rearrange them so that Bittle would be straddling his lap, but he’s too afraid he’ll tip the chair over if he tries.

There hasn’t been anywhere near as much time or opportunity for this as Jack would like, so he doesn’t hold back now. He plunders Bittle’s mouth, leaving Bittle to sigh out a breathy _oh_ when Jack drags his lips to Bittle’s jaw. Bittle tightens his fingers in Jack’s hair, grasping there and keeping Jack where he is. “Oh, honey,” he says, his voice like syrup. “I can’t even believe… my goodness... any of this sometimes. I can’t believe _you_. I can’t believe you gave me an _oven_ to ask me to be your boyfriend.”

“I could give you something else,” Jack suggests, and it’s out of his mouth before he even realizes that he’s going to say it. Bittle goes still in his lap, and Jack sputters. “Wait — no. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Bittle tugs on Jack’s hair and gets some separation between them, then leans back to look at Jack skeptically. He seems surprised, but there’s a certain glint in his eye. “Oh, really? How did you mean it, Mr. Zimmermann? Because that sounded awfully saucy.”

Jack’s already-warm face flames, because apparently he’s going to just bumble through everything today. “I just meant — I could blow you. If you want.” Bittle inhales sharply at the words, but he doesn’t otherwise respond, so Jack adds, “I want to.”

Bittle blinks at him. “So… you’re not giving me an oven to ask me to be your boyfriend. You’re giving me a — a —” he stumbles over the word, then pushes it out: “a _blowjob_ to ask me to be your boyfriend.”

“An oven _and_ a blowjob, technically,” Jack points out. “And we already decided the boyfriend thing, so you can just call the blowjob a birthday present.”

Bittle’s entire face is pink. He presses up against Jack again, hiding it. “How can you just say it like that?”

Jack shrugs and chuffs out a laugh, petting one hand over Bittle’s back. “I’m just telling the truth.”

“Which is… that you want to… do _that_?”

“Which is that I _really_ want to do that.” And that’s the absolute truth, so much so that it’s probably an understatement. It’s something that they haven’t done yet, and moreover, it’s something that Jack _likes_ doing because he knows he’s good at it. The only previous time he’d tried with Bittle — clearly broadcasting his intent with a string of kisses down Bittle's bared torso — Bittle had stopped him and they’d frotted to orgasm instead. Jack hadn’t been upset about it then, and he isn’t upset about it now, but there’s a part of him that’s almost desperate to share this particular experience with Bittle.

If Bittle is okay with it of course. So Jack clarifies that: “As long as you want to do it too.”

Bittle shifts on his lap. “I… suppose I could be persuaded,” he mumbles into Jack’s neck.

Jack’s heart trips in his chest. “Good,” he says as he stands, managing to boost Bittle into his arms while he does. Bittle lets out a startled laugh and clings to Jack’s neck as Jack swings him toward the bed. “Good lord, Jack, what’s gotten into you today?”

“Just how much I —” he starts, but he cuts himself off abruptly, because the words that follow that are _love you_ , and he hasn’t fully explored that in his own head yet, much less sent it flying out into the air. He covers for his pause by plopping Bittle onto the bed and climbing up beside him. “Just how happy I am,” he amends, sealing the words with a kiss.

Bittle’s beaming at him when he pulls back. “I’m happy too.”

Jack answers him by bringing their smiling mouths together.

It’s almost too good, kissing and undressing Bittle in his bed on a sunny, summerlike late afternoon, when the responsibilities of his college career are slipping away and their whole future is stretching out ahead of them. Jack knows that real life will rear its ugly head soon enough and they'll have plenty of challenges to face, but right here, right now, he has Bittle’s nervous, eager hands and he has Bittle’s pleasured sighs and the sweet-spicy scent of the kitchen that seems to cling to him. He has Bittle’s legs around his waist, and that’s enough to make Jack want to grind their bodies against each other to completion, but that’s not why they’re here.

Bittle does go minutely tense when Jack noses his way down past Bittle’s chest to his stomach. Jack pauses every time he does, kissing and stroking whatever skin is under his mouth and fingertips until Bittle relaxes again. It’s a heady experience in and of itself, and then he encounters Bittle’s waistband.

This won’t be the first time that Jack takes Bittle’s pants off, but it is the first time he gets to nuzzle into the open vee of the zipper. He’s careful to leave Bittle’s briefs in place when he slides his shorts down, hoping that he can ease Bittle into the situation by, well — by doing what he’s doing now, running his nose and lips along Bittle’s erection but over the fabric of his underwear, peppering in some sucking kisses, fitting his mouth to the head.

The response from Bittle is more than positive: he gasps and squirms and tosses his head back against Jack’s pillows, and when Jack tucks his fingertips under the waist of Bittle’s briefs and asks, “Can I take these off too?” he replies, “Yes, _please_.”

It takes some awkward maneuvering to remove them, and then Bittle’s spread out in front of Jack, naked and obviously turned on. He has one arm tossed over his eyes, like he can’t watch, but Jack doesn’t mind. If it makes Bittle more comfortable this time, that’s okay. What Jack _doesn’t_ like is how the part of Bittle’s face that he can see is set into hard lines. He considers that for a moment, leans forward, and very, very carefully places his mouth on Bittle’s stomach, right above his belly button. And blows a raspberry.

Bittle squeals and jumps, his head jerking up off the pillow. “Jack!” he exclaims, laughing, looking at him now. He asks again: “What has gotten _into_ you?”

Jack shrugs one shoulder. “This is supposed to be fun. You didn’t look like you were having fun.”

“Of course I am,” Bittle says with a huff. “I’m just — still nervous, I guess.”

“What about?”

When Bittle’s eyes dart away, Jack dips to hover his lips over Bittle’s stomach and Bittle glances back, a warning glint in his eye. “All right, all right. I could do something wrong.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Jack considers that for a moment. “I don’t think there’s much you could do wrong. This is mostly on me. What if I do something wrong?”

Bittle scoffs. “I may not have a _lot_ of experience in this area. Um, yet? But based on everything so far, I find that very hard to believe.”

“Well, tell me if I do, okay?” Jack says. “Not doing that is the only thing you could really do wrong.”

Maybe that’s not entirely true — after all, Bittle could thrust too hard into his mouth or come in Jack’s eye or something, but in the end, things like that wouldn’t _actually_ matter. Either way, it relaxes Bittle enough that he smiles and takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says, then repeats it. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Jack echoes. He lowers his head again, but this time just kisses the smooth plane of Bittle’s stomach, then turns his attention south. Bittle lets loose a little whimper and drops his head back down to the pillow. He leaves his face uncovered this time, and his hands go tight in the bedding.

Jack takes a moment to gently explore Bittle’s cock with lips and tongue when he reaches it, making sure that Bittle is just as ready as he had been before the momentary interruption. He wishes that he could do more, but well, Bittle has all the stamina of someone who doesn’t have a lot of experience in this area (yet, definitely yet), so Jack repositions to fit his lips to the head of Bittle’s dick, swirls his tongue there briefly, and then goes down.

“ _Oh_!” Bittle gasps, his voice unlike Jack’s ever heard it before. “Oh… lord.” His hips do flex upward in a sharp, instinctive motion, but Jack anticipates him and keeps him in place with a firm grip. Finally getting his mouth around Bittle is a dream made real and overwhelming, and Bittle is all that he can taste and smell and see, even behind his closed eyes. Focusing on Bittle’s pleasure is easy to do, and Jack falls into it, so quickly that it comes as something of a surprise when Bittle’s hand lands on his shoulder. “Jack, I’m — this isn’t going to —”

Jack slides off on the next upstroke. “Okay.” Then he goes back to work.

Bittle makes a noise like a pained whine. “You want me to…?”

“Yes,” Jack says when he’s able. Bittle hasn’t done this with anyone else, he knows, so Jack’s not worried about the lack of condom. “I want you to come in my mouth.”

He barely gets Bittle back in before it happens, like his words have jarred Bittle’s orgasm loose. Jack works him through it, and when he’s able to take stock of his own situation, is surprised to find how close he is to his own release, all his muscles coiled tight and waiting, waiting for the slightest nudge to tumble over, just from this.

Jack sits back between Bittle’s splayed legs and brings his hand to his own erection, taking a tight hold at the base to try and stave himself off. Looking down at Bittle isn’t any help — he’s flushed and sated and beautiful, his head thrown to one side so he’s grinning privately into his bent arm. “Oh, _sweetheart_ ,” he sighs, freeing his face and opening his eyes. “That was… unbe _liev_ able.”

There’s nothing Jack can do but smile back. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Under different circumstances, he’d expect Bittle to muster up a chirp, but he just gives a lazy hum instead. Jack can _feel_ the moment he notices Jack’s — state of affairs. He goes still in the middle of stretching out his limbs, and his eyebrows quirk upwards. “It looks like — well, it looks like you enjoyed it too.”

“I did,” Jack confirms, flexing the grip he has around himself. He’s not quite sure how to bridge the gap from where he is now to whatever’s going to happen next.

Thankfully, Bittle takes the reins, though it looks like he surprises even himself when he says, “Okay, go ahead.”

It’s Jack turn to arch his brow. “Go ahead and…?”

“Do, um — what you’re going to do,” Bittle tries to explain, his face flushing anew. He nods at Jack’s hand on his own cock.

That isn’t exactly an explanation, but Jack’s pretty sure he gets it, and he doesn’t need further encouragement. “Sure, now you want to watch,” he huffs out as he strips his hand up the length of his erection and brushes his thumb over the head.

Bittle’s blush is so vibrant that it’s spilling down his chest. “I guess I do.”

“Okay,” Jack says. He doesn’t finesse it — maybe he should, with an audience, but he knows he’s going to get there fast, which doesn’t put him in the mood to tease himself. He only pauses briefly to knee-walk a little farther into the vee of Bittle’s spread thighs, grasping one with his free hand. It grounds him, and he lets himself go, chasing his pleasure with quick strokes of his hand and harsh breaths, his eyes drifting shut as his chin cants toward his chest. “Bittle,” he pants. “Fuck, Bittle — do you have…?”

He’s not sure what he’s asking for — something to come in or on, he supposes. Which, in a way, Bittle provides when he says, “Just… _doitonme_.”

“On you?” Jack repeats, his eyes flying open, barely able to imagine that he heard that right.

“I — yes. I mean, I just did in your mouth, so yes.”

Jack can’t do much more in reply than grunt, and he jerks himself roughly to completion, spilling onto Bittle’s stomach and abdomen. He lurches forward onto one arm, shuddering, his eyes squeezed shut until he feels a gentle touch on the wrist that’s now braced against the bed. Bittle’s fingers trail lightly there, then curl around, and Jack looks to see him, flushed and mussed, his teeth set into his smile, tamping it down. His eyes are shining. “Jack,” he says.

“Bits,” Jack replies as he recovers his breath.

“Honey, you’re so gorgeous.” He pauses, lets his grin expand. “ _My boyfriend_ is gorgeous.”

Jack grumbles, because he never knows what to do with compliments that aren’t about his hockey skills, and although he’s not sure, he can’t imagine that the faces and noises he makes when he comes are anything other than ridiculous. But the moment is too perfect to ruin with any of that, so he collapses down onto the bed and moves to run his fingers over Bittle’s bare side. “Well, my boyfriend is ticklish.”

Bittle tries to squirm away from Jack’s hand, making muffled noises of distress and mirth. “Jack — stop! I’m all _gross_ and it’s just — _ooh!_ — getting everywhere!”

“You asked me to do that,” Jack points out, and Bittle gasps and hits him with a pillow for saying it. Jack tightens his grip, stopping Bittle’s squirming, and plants a firm kiss on his mouth before relenting and retrieving a box of tissues from his desk.

When they’re settled in again, Bittle muses from where he’s tucked into Jack’s chest: “I think I’m going to miss having you right across the hall, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“It’s only going to be for a year,” Jack says without thinking, and he immediately considers taking the pillow out from behind his head and attempting to smother himself with it. They’ve been together for _two weeks_. Not even.

Bittle is still and quiet for a moment, and then he turns to kiss the flat of Jack’s pectoral. “I’m more worried about the next three months,” he finally says. “What am I going to do down in Georgia to occupy my time?”

“Fill your entire house with pie?”

“You joke, but don’t think I wouldn’t. It sure would be easier with that fancy oven that’s waiting downstairs. Maybe I’ll stay here and fill _this_ Haus with pie.”

Jack perks up at that. “Would you?”

Bittle sighs. “Oh, sweetheart, I wish. My mama wouldn’t stand for it, and I already have my plane ticket.”

“Well,” Jack says, “try not to worry about it too much, Bits. We’ll work something out.” He will, too; the prospect of three yawning months without Bittle suddenly seems unthinkable.

“Something, huh?”

Jack cards a hand back through Bittle’s hair, and he lifts his head to meet Jack’s gaze. “Something,” Jack repeats. “Something really good.”

He smiles, and Bittle meets it with his own.

It’s definitely something good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to tumblr masterpost [here](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/post/176532402797/so-much-more-than-something-zimbits-fic)!
> 
> This fic was a long time coming, and I'm so excited that it's finally all posted. Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who read, left kudos or comments, and reached out on tumblr! ♥

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to stop by and say hi on [tumblr](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/) :)


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